


Put Out The Fire

by Aleakim



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Comedy, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Humor, Idiots in Love, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:50:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 75,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleakim/pseuds/Aleakim
Summary: -Aziraphale finds himself in a very awkward position as some sort of spell makes everyone merely glancing in his direction instantly fall deeply and desperately in love with him.Absolutelyeveryone.Well, apart from Crowley, that is.And while both angel and demon search for a solution to this fairly unique problem, Crowley can’t help wondering whether Aziraphale might finally figure out some things he kept hidden for so very long.-





	1. Don't Look At Me

**Author's Note:**

> -
> 
> Hey guys!
> 
> I know there are probably a million fics about this trope somewhere out there and I'm totally pumped to join them and throw my own ideas into the mix :D  
> I hope you don't mind ;)
> 
> So far the main plot I have planned covers somewhat over twenty chapters, but I'm pretty sure some extra spur-of-the-moment scenes will sneak up on me somewhere along the way, so for now that's more of a rough number than anything. I mean, with those two I could easily spend twenty chapters just with them bickering and drinking wine, right? ;DD  
> The more the merrier, I'd say.
> 
> So, then, without further ado, I hope you have some fun ^^
> 
> -
> 
>  
> 
> **EDIT: Russian translation now available[HERE](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8532386)**
> 
>  
> 
> -

It’s a perfectly normal Saturday afternoon with Crowley threatening his plants with fairly graphic Medieval torture methods just for the fun of it when suddenly his phone starts to ring.

The demon hates to be interrupted in his very colorful depiction and for a moment considers to ignore the annoying device altogether and migrate to the stories of hellish witch burnings instead, including detailed descriptions of melting flesh and painful screams, but after a quick glance on the display he notices it’s Aziraphale calling him and he finds himself pressing the reply button without a second thought.

It’s just a reflex by now.

He just _can’t_ ignore the angel. It’s physically impossible.

“Aziraphale,” he greets his friend cheerfully. “You’re already missing me?”

It stays silent for a moment at the other end of the line, only a small shuffling noise like the angel rearranging some papers, followed by a very deep sigh and some incoherent mumbling that nobody on earth and beyond would’ve been able to understand.

Eventually, though, Aziraphale remembers that he has to answer in order to have some kind of conversation. “Crowley, my dear …”

And then he falls quiet again, like he can’t recall why he even picked up his phone in the first place and finds his thoughts going astray the next second.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley wonders, a tinge of worry gripping at his heart.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Aziraphale is quick to reassure. _Too_ quick. “I’m perfectly fine.”

There are things you automatically learn when you know someone for over six thousand years and the different hitches and wavers in the angel’s voice have always been one of the most prominent. Aziraphale’s ability to lie - or at least bend the truth so much you don’t have to feel guilty about it as a celestial being - has always been mediocre at best, his tone and his usually quite expressive face normally giving him away pretty fast, making it fairly easy for the demon to detect the attempted deception. 

This time it’s no different.

“Okay, angel, what is going on?” Crowley urges. “You sound off.”

“Like I said, I’m perfectly -”

“Nonsense!”

“ _Crowley_ -!”

“ _Aziraphale_ -!”

The angel huffs and puffs and for a moment Crowley honestly believes Aziraphale would just hang up and leave the country for the next few decades only to avoid having to continue this conversation. 

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

Eventually, though, instead of fleeing to the other side of the world Aziraphale takes a very deep breath in an effort to collect himself. “I’m just calling to inform you not to bother coming around the bookshop for the next couple of days. I’m fairly busy at the moment and would merely throw you out anyway.”

Not a lie.

Interesting.

“Busy with what?” Crowley wonders.

Aziraphale makes a noise Crowley’s not sure he ever heard him produce before. “Well … research. About some books which very recently started to pique my interest.”

Again, not a lie.

But Crowley’s supernatural senses are still tingling like crazy.

“You remember we’ve got tickets for that play tonight?” Crowley can’t help pointing out. “That depressingly gloomy one you’ve been prattling on about for the last week?”

Aziraphale sucks in some air, like he indeed totally forgot about the entire affair. “Well … I guess I have to cancel my engagement, I’m afraid.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Cancel? Because of some _books_?”

“It’s quite important research -”

“Which you have to conduct day and night, without any sort of break?” Crowley shakes his head in disbelief. “ _C’mon_ , Aziraphale. I bought this bloody tickets _for you_. And now you’re telling me you don’t want to go?”

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to -”

“Then what’s keeping you?” Crowley throws his arms up into the air in frustration and notices in the corner of his eye how his plants in the background start to shake nervously, obviously anticipating him to lash out in a rather violent way in the not so distant future. “Don’t tell me some bullshit -”

“I’m not lying!” Aziraphale emphasises.

“But you’re not telling the whole truth either!”

For a moment they both fall quiet, marinating in their own thoughts and emotions getting the better of them, and Crowley finds himself grinding his teeth as both anger and concern gnaw at his naked bones. Admittedly, Aziraphale always had his secrets and hideouts over the last millennia, just as much as Crowley, but since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t the demon actually believed they ascended to an entirely new level in their relationship. No sides anymore, no Above and Below, only them and their own little thing.

He hates to think he’d been wrong.

In the end it’s Aziraphale who picks up his voice again. He sounds tired as he explains, “I _promise_ you nothing life threatening for me or anyone else is afoot. It’s just something that I have to deal with myself at first. Something … _personal_.”

Crowley chews on his bottom lip. This doesn’t do much to disperse his worries at all, he has to admit.

“I swear I will make it up to you,” Aziraphale promises. “So instead of sulking you should be thrilled you don’t have to watch this ‘gloomy’ play and do something you genuinely enjoy instead.”

Crowley frowns. Sure, he still prefers the funny ones, but nothing can beat spending time with the angel, not even unnecessarily dark and grim plot lines which make you wish to stab yourself into the eye with a fork every two minutes. Does Aziraphale still not know that?

“We’re going to see each other in a couple of days then,” Aziraphale states, his voice appearing fairly strained again. “I will be in touch.”

“ _Wait_ -”

“Until next time.”

And then he hangs up and leaves Crowley staring at his phone with a mixture of bewilderment and concern.

What the hell just happened?

 

\-----

 

For about an hour Crowley honestly considers that he’s making too much of a deal out of this.

After all, it’s certainly possible Aziraphale developed some new obsession. He’s fairly good with those, to be honest. Once he spent a sodding eternity translating just one single text. Not to mention the summer of ‘78 where he suddenly got addicted to bee keeping and it switched between weeks of Crowley not hearing a tiny little peep from him and then Aziraphale suddenly appearing out of the blue and attacking the demon with 12,784 new facts about those flying yellow bugs without any prompting whatsoever.

So it surely wouldn’t be the first time for the angel to get a bit lost.

But Crowley can’t shake the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, the slight hesitations in his speech. The way he chose every word very carefully.

There is _something_ going on.

And Crowley will be damned - _again_ \- if he can’t find out what’s going on.

 

\-----

 

The first odd thing Crowley notices is a few bunches of flowers sitting at the bookshop’s entrance, bright and colourful against the building’s bland exterior. It seems they have been deliberately positioned there so that no one would be able to miss them.

For a moment the demon considers the place having turned into a crime scene at some point not long ago - murder, accident, the presence of a pantomime ... who knows? - and Aziraphale simply forgot to bring it up, mainly because he just generally has trouble paying attention to the things going around him, so why bother with a murder scene, right? But at closer inspection the flowers appear way too joyful and cheery to express condolences in any way, not to mention the cards full of hearts and rainbows attached to some of them speak a totally different language as well.

Probably not a murder scene then.

Unless an unpopular politician died here, of course. Hell knows there are a lot of them walking around these days.

Crowley certainly wouldn’t be surprised to learn humanity celebrates some of those people’s demises.

He steps at the door and instantly halts in his movements as he sees the big sign pinned at it declaring the shop “closed until further notice due to maintenance”.

Crowley can’t help arching his brows. That’s clearly something new.

Granted, Aziraphale actually hates customers and keeps very irregular and confusing opening hours to throw off as many people as possible, but at the same time he does put some effort into keeping up the charade of a normal business. Having it closed for an undefined time and not even telling Crowley about it in the first place is clearly something that arouses suspicion straightaway.

Well, maintenance certainly isn’t the issue here, no doubt about that. Any burst pipe or overturned shelf could be fixed thanks to some heavenly miracle without any trouble at all. And considering that Aziraphale had kept the place the same for very long decades now Crowley highly doubts the angel just succumbed to an urgent need to see the whole shop refurbished all of a sudden.

Sure, maybe Aziraphale just desires some peace and quiet for his ‘research’ and doesn’t want to be disturbed by obnoxious customers, but still … 

The entire thing is fairly strange.

Just a moment later it gets weirder as he notices the door being locked. Not only the normal way, but _very supernatural_ as well.

Crowley growls and snips his fingers several times, but apart from a mild groan from the hinges he doesn’t get anything.

“ _Damnit_!” he curses, glaring at the door and hoping against all odds that this would be enough to have it pop open. “Seriously, _Aziraphale_?”

He doesn’t wait around for long but starts to pound onto the wood, loud and booming and fairly annoying, while exclaiming “ _AZIRAPHALE_!” with such a volume all of Soho is probably startled to their core right away.

“ _Aziraphale_ , open that damned door!” he bellows. “I know you’re in there!”

He can feel it, deep in his guts. Aziraphale’s presence is like a lighthouse, even despite all these magical precautions shielding off the shop.

Finding the angel and spotting him amongst millions has always been the easiest task in the world for Crowley.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s muffled voice eventually - _FINALLY_ \- sounds through the door. “What are you _doing_ here? I told you I’m not prepared for any company.”

Crowley snorts. “You _really_ think I’d stay away? After you gave me such a lame excuse and nothing else?”

“It isn’t an _excuse_ -”

“You’re a bad liar, angel,” Crowley hollers through the door. “Something bad is going on and if you won’t let me in in the next ten seconds, I’m gonna kick this blasted hinges open -”

“No, please,” Aziraphale cuts in, sounding all shades of desperate now. “I can’t … I can’t have you _looking_ at me.”

Crowley halts in his motions and wrinkles his forehead. 

That is not exactly what he had expected to hear.

“Not _look_ at you?” he wonders in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Aziraphale stays silent for a moment, probably sorting his thoughts and searching for a way to not have the demon destroy his front door.

“Please, Crowley …” he begs in the end. “You can’t … I’m not …”

Crowley presses himself against the wood while ignoring the odd looks of the passersby in the process. “What is it, Aziraphale?” he asks, putting something akin to softness in his tone. “Why can’t I look at you? Is it something embarrassing?”

“My dear …”

“Did you turn yourself purple again?”

Aziraphale gasps in shock, apparently not having anticipated the demon to bring this up all of a sudden. “That was _one tie_ ,” he defends himself angrily. “And it was an _accident_.”

“Accidents can always happen a second time.”

“I’m _not purple_!” Aziraphale states with emphasis. “And you promised me to never mention it again.”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders, even when the angel is unable to see it at the moment. “What do you expect of me? With you being all secretive …” He sighs quietly. “What is it, angel? _C’mon_ , tell me. You got a pimple? Tried to dye your hair and it went wrong majorly?”

“It’s nothing like that …”

“Is it your wings? Do they need some grooming?”

“My dear -”

“Because they _definitely_ need some grooming. I could help you with that.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Crowley …”

The demon shuts his eyes for a second, trying to organise the thoughts tumbling wildly inside his head. “Angel, we’re friends, right?”

Crowley is almost able to see Aziraphale’s emotional expression at those words right through the wood.

“Oh dear,” the angel whispers, his voice filled with affection. “Of course we are.”

“Then let me help you,” Crowley urges. “Whatever is happening, whatever you need to do that research for … I could give you a hand.”

“Crowley …”

“I’m not entirely useless, you know?”

“ _Of course_ I know that!” Aziraphale sounds offended now, like the mere idea is completely ridiculous and he wants everyone who ever claimed such a thing see punished for their poor judgment. 

“Then let me help you, for … for whoever’s sake!”

It’s silent again as Aziraphale spends a very long while debating with himself on the other side of the door. Crowley can’t help getting impatient quite soon, but he forces himself to shut his mouth for once. He honestly doesn’t want to push the angel away and have this discussion all over again.

“Okay, fine,” Aziraphale eventually concedes, sounding fairly reluctant, but also a tiny bit relieved. Like he’s not really sure whether he wants the demon close or far away. “But there are some conditions.”

Crowley straightens his back. “Whatever. Name them.”

“First you have to promise not to laugh,” Aziraphale says, probably awkwardly shifting his weight from one leg to another, squirming like a little toddler.

Crowley finds himself scoffing. “I would _never_ laugh at you.”

It’s a lie, of course, and they both know it, but he thinks he deserves some bonus points for making the effort in the first place.

However, his muscles begin to lose some of their tension. If Aziraphale’s biggest concern is becoming a laughing matter, it’s most likely not as serious a situation as Crowley’s imagination tried to make him believe.

“And we can’t communicate face to face,” Aziraphale states with emphasis. “I don’t care how else - phone calls, letters, carrier pigeons -, but this is important.”

This is getting really weird.

“What can be worse than turning purple for two weeks?”

“Just … _promise_ me.”

Crowley bites his lower lip. “Fine, I will keep my distance, angel. If that’s what you want.”

The issue is, though, that the things which come out of Crowley’s mouth and the things which stay in his head and eat him up on the inside until he’s only a bundle of nerves and obnoxious emotions, are almost never the same.

So while promising Aziraphale to stay away, his whole being simply _yearns_ to see him. To make sure for himself that the angel is indeed unharmed. To see it with his own two eyes.

And that wish - that deep seated, powerful wish - resonates directly with the magic Aziraphale put on the locked door.

Because instead of staying closed it spectacularly swings open all of a sudden to invite the demon inside and reveals a startled looking angel on the other side who stumbles backwards and nearly collides with a shelf behind him in the process.

“No, no, no, no,” Aziraphale mutters in shock, his wide eyes staring at the demon. “What did you _do_?”

Crowley instantly raises his hands in defence. “I didn’t do anything, I swear.”

The angel appears devastated as he presses himself against the shelf like he’s hoping it might swallow him up in the next second and get him out of this situation. “No, no, no,” he keeps mumbling. “Not you … everyone but _you_ …”

Since the damage is already done anyway and Crowley can’t do anything to make it disappear he enters the bookshop and quickly closes the door behind him (though not before whispering a quick ‘thank you’ to it).

“Well, this is that then,” he says, shrugging. “Blame your own heavenly powers for this.”

Aziraphale still looks as if he’d rather vanish on the spot than be in Crowley’s presence for even a split second longer and the demon tries not to feel offended by that.

“I see you’re not purple, at least,” Crowley points out, letting his gaze wander over the angel very thoroughly. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him - no sudden changes in colour, no facial or otherwise visible disfigurations. He still looks like a nostalgic gentleman from the last century.

Exactly the same as he left the angel.

So what the hell changed in the meantime?

“So what is it, angel?” Crowley asks again, sighing. “I’m getting a bit tired of this evasive chicken game, to be honest.”

For way too long Aziraphale stays frozen and simply gapes, apparently lost for words, while he goes through a myriad of emotions that show themselves quite prominently on the angel’s face.

There’s the initial shock, obviously.

Then anger, probably at Crowley and his audacity to enter his sanctuary so blatantly.

The next thing is confusion. _So much_ confusion. Aziraphale doesn’t even seem to know what to do with that at first, so it appears.

And then comes the suspicion.

He narrows his eyes and eventually takes a step forward, closer to the demon. He’s still wary of some distance between them, but at the same time he seems to be pulled in like a magnet.

“Crowley …” he finally whispers, his voice unsteady. “How … how are you feeling?”

Crowley just frowns at him. “ _Me_? What about _you_?”

The angel, however, simply ignores his question as he continues asking, “Are you all right, my dear?” while he keeps looking at Crowley like he thinks him to be a bomb which might explode any moment now.

“ _All right_?” Crowley scoffs. “I’m annoyed and pissed off you’re not telling me what’s going on. _That’s_ how I’m feeling, if you wanna know.”

Aziraphale tilts his head and assesses the demon from top to bottom, his puzzled features changing into something like curiosity now.

“Crowley, my dear,” he eventually says, his tone soft, “may I ask you a question?”

Crowley can’t help feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden. Aziraphale’s reaction is more than peculiar and he honestly doesn’t like being in the dark like this very much. 

“Fine,” he growls nonetheless. “If this will help getting things along, shoot away.”

Aziraphale comes closer, his gaze so intense now Crowley feels a cold shiver running down his spine.

“Tell me, old friend,” he breathes, “are you in love with me?”

Crowley always wondered what it would feel like if the world came to a screeching halt - and suddenly, in this very moment, he experiences it firsthand.

Everything around him seems to freeze in time, even the spider in the corner building its net, and the only thing that matters is the angel and the demon in the room as that heavy question echoes from the walls and gets louder and louder within seconds.

In the end, after probably an eternity containing at least two more apocalypses they totally missed because they were way too busy staring at each other, he finally manages to find at least a fragment of his voice again.

“W-w- _what_?”

It’s not exactly elegant or at least somewhat graceful, but Crowley certainly isn’t prepared for more at this point. 

“Are you in love with me?” Aziraphale repeats the question, sounding annoyingly calm despite the importance of the situation.

Crowley can do nothing else but widen his eyes and wonder whether his legs will continue to carry him for long.

“Do you feel the urge to confess your undying love for me?” the angel keeps wondering, like this is an everyday query and not something of huge magnitude. “Do you feel the overpowering desire to write me all the love poems in the world?”

Crowley senses a headache coming his way and he didn’t even have any alcohol yet. “Uh …”

“What about flowers?” Aziraphale adds, sounding weirdly excited now. “Do you suddenly want to pick some flowers from a meadow that have the same colour as my eyes?”

Crowley gapes some more while feeling his brain melting.

Aziraphale, however, suddenly smiles so brightly the sun itself should probably start to worry about the competition. “Oh Heavens, you’re not, right?” he asks giddily. “You’re _not_ in love with me?”

He sounds so bloody happy about that Crowley doesn’t have any idea how to react to it.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Aziraphale rejoices and before Crowley even knows what is happening he finds himself in a bone-crushing hug that pushes all the air he doesn’t need anyway out of his lungs. “This is _magnificent_!”

“Uh …”

“I’m _so thrilled_ -”

“... I don’t …”

“You can even imagine how _relieved_ I am -”

“Angel …”

“I mean, you _are_ not in love with me, right?” Aziraphale asks further while pulling back a little and taking that unexpected warmth with him. “ _Right_? Or do you feel any different?”

“I feel exactly the same,” Crowley hears himself answering before he even realizes he opened his mouth.

To see the blinding smile return is almost worth it, though.

“I was so worried,” Aziraphale explains, squeezing Crowley’s wrist. “I mean, _you_ … I couldn’t have been able to bear it.” 

Crowley feels like he’s on an emotional rollercoaster and he doesn’t even understand what is happening to begin with.

“Okay, angel, what the hell is going on?” he demands to know.

Aziraphale instantly starts to fidget uncomfortably, but he still keeps looking at Crowley with that overly affectionate gaze which makes the demon feel way too many things.

“Well … it seems I somehow … no idea how … or why … or even when, to be honest …” He clears his throat awkwardly. “It appears I somehow got into contact with some sort of - um, love spell.”

Crowley arches his brows. “What?”

“Some sort of love spell or however you want to name it,” Aziraphale repeats, a slight blush on his cheeks as he tries to avoid Crowley’s eyes. “For the last twenty-four hours everyone - apart from you - who looked at me instantly fell head over heels in love with me.”

Crowley blinks.

Blinks some more.

And then he groans.

“Ah _damnit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter :D
> 
> Until next time then!


	2. Dilemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Hey, guys!!
> 
> Here we are again :D  
> Despite my sister bringing a "nice" stomach flu into our house and poisoning us all I somehow managed to wrap this chapter up in a hopefully halfway decent manner ;D
> 
> I hope you have fun ^^
> 
> -

It’s been certainly a very peculiar day and a half.

Or perhaps even more, without Aziraphale realising it at first.

So far not exactly the strangest experience he ever had - no, that clearly is reserved for the day that dragon escaped out of Hell and decided to declare the angel’s former garden his personal sleeping berth for the time being, fairly visible for the whole neighbourhood -, but it’s already getting into Aziraphale’s own Top Five without any hindrance whatsoever.

Aziraphale can’t really name the exact time and date things began to alter. Everything had been perfectly fine on Monday, at the very least. Dinner at the Ritz with Crowley, celebrating the three month anniversary of the almost-apocalypse, and a leisurely walk in the park afterwards. At that time nobody spontaneously fell in love with Aziraphale, recited mediocre poetry, showered him with gifts of various kinds or even proposed marriage to him.

Everything appeared absolutely normal.

The next day, however … things started to become weird.

At first he didn’t even realise anything being amiss and only in hindsight he understands the little instances he didn’t pay much attention to but which probably presented the beginning of this whole dilemma. All the people at the bakery who let him cut the queue out of the blue, the nice cashier who smiled so brightly and gave him his entire order on the house, including several delicious pastries he didn’t even ask for but which she put into the bag anyway. The busker who started to play a love song when Aziraphale entered his field of vision and stared at the angel the entire time. All the humans on the street turning their heads around to follow his movements with their eyes … 

Aziraphale honestly didn’t think much of it at first. He’s been way too occupied mulling over a new book acquisition at the time to register any kind of abnormalities in his near vicinity anyway. He only believed having an especially good day and experiencing humanity in its most wonderful kindness.

The rest of Tuesday more or less went on like that and now, in retrospect, Aziraphale realises the spell most likely started light, only piquing peoples’ interest in him and making them aware of the angel’s existence in a mildly magical but still rather harmless way.

On the next day, though, subtlety simply died a quick and unexpected death.

The delivery man first thing in the morning - a grouchy middle-aged man who usually seems to consider quitting humankind altogether and move into the wilderness to never see another one of his kind ever again - suddenly went all doe-eyed and burst into tears about how beautiful Aziraphale was. A passerby, getting curious by the noises, instantly fell to her knees when she laid eyes on the angel and declared her eternal love before her caps even hit the concrete.

And it only got worse after that.

At least ten more people got pulled in by the whole ruckus before Aziraphale was able to seal the door behind himself and keep them out, for the time being at least.

“And that’s when I started to bury myself in research,” he tells Crowley while he drops onto the chair in the backroom, starting to feel fairly exhausted as the events begin to catch up on him. “Books, texts, papers, even that dreadful internet. Unfortunately there’s _so much_ on this topic, it will take forever to go through it all.”

Crowley sits down on the worn sofa and stays surprisingly quiet, only looking at Aziraphale as though he has no idea what to even think anymore. It’s prominent despite those sunglasses covering his eyes. Aziraphale knows him long enough to read his facial expressions, the micro twitches of his muscles, to understand him even without any words.

So the angel keeps silent as well and lets Crowley wrap his head around the news on his own for now while he inwardly revels in his relief to see the demon in such a state at all. He seriously anticipated Crowley becoming victim of this enchantment as well when that traitorous door suddenly swung open and declared the barrier between them null and void.

Aziraphale would have been devastated to see that horrible grimace of fake affection on Crowley’s features. His eyes glazing over, his mind and personality vanishing and being replaced by a love-sick replica of his former self.

It would’ve broken Aziraphale’s heart to hear Crowley confess a false and cruel love with so many emotions in his voice. He couldn’t have borne that, he is sure of that.

So seeing Crowley like this, apparently absolutely unaffected, lifts such a weight from Aziraphale’s shoulders that he feels as though he can finally breathe properly for the very first time in his life. For a minute or two he considers hugging the demon again, to _feel_ him, and it takes all his strength to suppress this fairly powerful urge.

“So, let me get this straight,” Crowley eventually picks up his voice again, “everyone looking at you is pulled in by that spell?”

Aziraphale nods. “It appears so, yes.”

“Like … poems, flowers, love declarations, proposals …?”

“One woman offered to carry my baby,” Aziraphale adds, grimacing hard at the memory. That one had been especially disturbing to hear.

Crowley certainly seems to share that sentiment. “Blimey.”

Due to the dull light falling through the little window behind him Aziraphale is able to see Crowley’s gaze flickering restlessly, as though he can’t really determine where to look at. As though all of this is way too much for him to comprehend.

And in the end Crowley merely shakes his head and sighs. “I need a drink.”

 

\-----

 

After two glasses of whiskey Crowley doesn’t feel particularly better, but at least it’s gave him something simple to occupy himself with for a short moment.

Because this whole thing - it sounds like an utter mess.

A bloody _love spell_ of all things!

How is a proper demon supposed to handle that?

At some point he got on his feet again and is now walking back and forth across the small room. Like a restless animal not equipped to handle such little space and eventually slowly going crazy.

Back and forth, back and forth.

“So how does this work?” he mumbles. “They just have to look at you?”

Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose, probably wondering whether it would be possible for him to develop a headache. “It seems so.”

Crowley tilts his head. “And do they have to, like … look at _all_ of you?” He gestures at Aziraphale’s everything and tells his stupid body not to flush in the process. “Or just a specific part?”

Aziraphale arches a brow. “A part?”

“Like, your eyes? Your face? Your rear?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turn an interesting shade of pink at those words. “ _Crowley_!”

Crowley can’t help a crooked smirk at the indignation in Aziraphale’s tone. Despite everything it’s always a joy to rile the angel up a bit from time to time.

“I’m just wondering about the mechanics,” Crowley explains, shrugging one shoulder. “Know your enemy and all that stuff. Figuring out how this enchantment works might help us find a solution.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes, apparently not happy with Crowley’s flawless logic. “You’re right,” he concedes reluctantly. “I just … I just don’t want to _think_ about it.”

“Well, if you want this problem to go away, I’m afraid you have to at some point.”

Aziraphale rubs a hand over his face before downing the glass of whiskey in his hand in one go. No savouring the taste, no enjoying the sensation on his tongue - just simple mindless drinking.

A clear indication that something is terribly wrong.

“I … I don’t know,” Aziraphale says after a moment, his eyes pressed shut like he’s unable to deal with the outside world anymore. “About the looking, I mean. I didn’t pay it much attention, to be honest. That sort of thing occurs when three people propose to you at once.”

Crowley stares at him pensively. “We could test it out,” he suggests. “Push you out on the sidewalk and see what happens.”

Aziraphale’s following glare would’ve been capable to melt an iceberg in a millisecond. “We will do _no_ such a thing!”

Crowley raises his hands. “I’m just trying to help here, angel …”

Aziraphale’s scowl deepens for a few minutes more, but in the end he deflates like a balloon and sags forward as though there’s not a single drop of energy left inside him.

“I know, I know,” he admits. “I apologise, I didn’t mean …” He makes a vague hand gesture Crowley has no clue how to interpret. “The situation is just dire enough as it is, my dear. I don’t want to draw in any more innocent people, if I can help it.”

Crowley studies him for a moment - the crease between the angel’s brows, the slight pinch of his lips - and in the end finds himself shrugging, trying for casual. “Fine by me.”

It’s not like he wants to see Aziraphale any more upset than he already is.

“But how about we keep it in the back of our minds?” Crowley suggests. “As a last resort?”

Because at the end of the day he’s pretty certain they will need all the information they can get about this spell, even if Aziraphale won’t be happy about the ways they’re going to obtain them. But even the smallest detail might give them the answer they desire.

“As an _definite_ last resort,” Aziraphale demands, his expression determined. “I don’t need even more humans falling in love with me, thank you very much.”

Crowley can’t help a smirk. “Aw, don’t be that way. The flowers outside at your door are very nice, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Do you have any idea how long it took for my ‘admirers’ to scatter again? They were banging against the door like a pack of madmen and it took such strong miracles to ‘remind’ them of their ‘highly important appointments they had to attend immediately’.” He scrunches his nose, frustration clear on his features. “I don’t know how long this will even hold. They might be back any second.”

The corners of his mouth droop as he considers the mere possibility.

And Crowley has to admit he doesn’t really fancy that image either. Granted, it might be kind of hilarious at first, but picturing a group of humans declaring their immortal love for Aziraphale over and over in a completely over-the-top manner certainly doesn’t appear very appealing in the long run.

Not even close.

“I’m just … I’m just really glad you’re unaffected by this mess,” Aziraphale finally confesses, now a small smile flickering over his lips. “I can’t even _imagine_ …”

Crowley grinds his teeth. “Why did you even believe this would have any kind of effect on me in the first place?” He snorts. “I’m a _demon_ , as you most likely remember.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line. “Well, you were an angel once,” he defends himself, squirming on his seat. “And that curse certainly has an effect on _me_ , as you can see. So I figured -”

“Figure again, my friend -”

“- especially with other angels feeling the influence as well -”

Crowley freezes on the spot at those words. “ _Other_ angels?” He steps closer and squints his eyes as he assesses Aziraphale thoroughly from top to bottom. “What do you mean by that?”

Aziraphale looks highly uncomfortable now. “I might have had some heavenly visit earlier today -”

Crowley’s chest clenches painfully, instantly remembering the last time they had to deal with Heaven. How those bastards tried to kill Aziraphale and in the end only failed because of Crowley taking his friend’s shape instead and fooling the lot … 

Yeah, hard to forget.

Aziraphale, however, is quick to reassure, “Oh no, don’t worry, this wasn’t any kind of hostile situation.” He leans forward, decreasing the distance between them as well, and attempts to reach out, his hand merely inches from Crowley’s wrist, hovering in the air. But he stops at the last second, a myriad of different emotions flashing in record time over his features as he leaves his arm hanging just there, looking outright awkward in the process. “It was, er … it was just sort of a social visit.”

Crowley scoffs. “ _Social_?”

“A young angel,” Aziraphale explains. “He just showed up at my doorstep earlier and outright told me that he was dared by his friends to seek out the ‘legendary and terrifying’ Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Like some kind of test of courage and bravery.” He huffs in amusement. “Can you believe that? _Me_ , stuff of legends? _Terrifying_?”

Crowley tilts his head and lets those words sink in, his mouth twitching upwards despite his best efforts. “Well, in his defence, you can get pretty scary from time to time. When someone touches your precious books or when the Ritz is out of your favourite appetizers … or remember that one time this bloke tried to sell you a fake Chianti? It’s rare that I’ve seen someone _so_ on the verge of murder and I’ve been in the company of _actual_ demons -”

“Alright, I get it!” Aziraphale cuts in, his scowl so dark the temperature in the shop seems to drop a few degrees. “Though you have to admit I probably gained that reputation mainly because of what _you_ did up in Heaven, wearing my face.”

Crowley grins lopsidedly at the memory of Gabriel’s shocked expression. “Right,” he says, chuckling. “That was fun.”

Aziraphale huffs. “How about we get back on track?” he suggests. “This young angel - Imael - only thought about impressing his friends by paying me a quick visit. An isolated event, most likely not connected with Heaven at all.”

Crowley leans closer. “And you’re implying this spell …?”

Aziraphale rubs the bridge of his nose, looking very tired all of a sudden. “At first he simply announced his reason for being here, the dare and everything - and then he looked at me, _really_ looked at me -”

“Oh my.”

“- and he suddenly got this awfully besotted expression on his face, just like all those humans before him -”

“Oh _my_.”

“- and he began to recite poetry - very badly -”

“Oh dear.”

“- and then he started to sing one of these terrible songs from ‘The Sound of Music’, absolutely off-tune -”

“Oh _damn_.”

“- and I think he even cried a little -”

“Angel ...”

“It was just _awful_ ,” Aziraphale says, sounding so distressed by the whole thing that Crowley honestly considers for a moment to wrap him into his arms and never let go. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Crowley lets his gaze wander over their surroundings. “What did you end up doing eventually?” he asks, finding himself wondering whether that angel still might be around here somewhere, sitting in a corner and writing horrific poems for Aziraphale.

“Well, I couldn’t just kick him out, right?” Aziraphale says. “That would’ve been fairly rude, not to mention an inappropriate use of force. That poor fellow isn’t to blame for this dilemma.” He sighs deeply. “So I sent him away. Told him, in order to ‘win my affections’, he would have to bring me the famous yellow-red-turquoise-chequered blossom from the depth of the sea. The special kind that tends to whistle Beethoven’s symphonies when being touched.”

The corners of Crowley’s mouth twitch upwards and he feels a sensation of amused pride washing over him. “ _Really_?”

“Well, it will keep him busy for a while, won’t it?” Aziraphale straightens his back. “Hopefully long enough for this mess to be sorted out.”

Crowley has to admit he truly enjoys the image of an angel desperately scouring the ocean for something so impossible, giving it his strength all day and night, keen for a find and absolutely oblivious that there never will be one.

Crowley would’ve almost pitied him if the entire thing wouldn’t be so bloody hilarious.

“This isn’t funny, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolds him, glowering at the smirk which unconsciously started to flicker over the demon’s features. “It’s _atrocious_!”

“It’s _a little bit_ funny,” Crowley points out.

Aziraphale merely groans lowly, apparently too exhausted to even argue about that, before canting yet another glass of whiskey down his throat and running his hand through his hair, transforming it into a much more dishevelled mess than normally. Strands are spiking around everywhere and for some reason Crowley can’t avert his gaze.

“It’s just … I’ve been researching basically nonstop since I realised what is going on,” Aziraphale says, misery wavering in his tone. “And it seems a possible answer is even farther away than when I began. Do you have _any idea_ how many variations of love enchantments are out there?”

Crowley is fairly proud to say he has not.

“Thousand spells, thousand different solutions,” Aziraphale continues, pouring himself some more whiskey very ungracefully. Crowley watches some of the liquid splash onto the desk, dangerously close to the books cluttered all over it, and the angel doesn’t even bat an eye at that. He simply uses his sleeve to half-heartedly wipe it off before sighing deeply yet again.

Well, then … 

It’s official: the angel is in a very bad place.

If he starts to neither care about his precious books nor his out-of-style wardrobe, things are seriously amiss.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Aziraphale breathes. “It’s just … there are people out there - _innocent humans_ … and this spell is tempering with their free will! They can’t even think clearly … and Imael … what if Heaven will see this as some kind of provocation? What if they think I did this on purpose?” He rubs his temples so hard his skin starts to turn alarmingly red. “Why did Imael have to show up _now_ of all times? I don’t want to be on Heaven’s radar again. I was just beginning to enjoy our new freedom … dinners, plays, the park … what if this mess will ruin everything once more?”

Crowley grimaces at that. He hadn’t really thought about this, but now, out in the open like that, an uncomfortable sensation settles in his belly. They hadn’t heard from neither Above nor Below for months and Crowley truly started to relish this wholly new experience. No cranky demons who don’t get the genius of his bad deeds anyway, no tedious paperwork, no cautious glances over his shoulder basically all the time - overall, it’s been quite wonderful and Crowley would hate to see this disappear again.

“The spell might wear itself out on its own eventually,” Aziraphale continues, his fingers dancing over the rim of his glass. “Or perhaps it might even get worse. Turn into obsession and violence.” He shudders at the mere thought. “And if I can’t find … if _we_ can’t find … a cure or whatever … would I have to stay away from humans for good? And angels, too? Would I be forced to bury myself in some dark cave and never come out ever again?”

He looks so miserable, so pitiful, that Crowley can’t hold himself back anymore as he reaches out and covers the angel’s hand with his own. It’s a light touch, barely anything to write songs about, but Crowley feels it deep in his bones and can’t suppress a mild shiver at the contact. 

Thankfully Aziraphale seems way too surprised by the small - yet so grand gesture - to notice Crowley’s reaction.

“Well, at least you’d still have me,” Crowley says in a weak attempt to cheer the angel up a bit. “I like dark caves.”

For a moment Aziraphale simply stares at him, his eyes getting a little dazed (most likely due to the alcohol finally reaching his brain), before his expression turns so impossibly soft any decent demon would’ve run away from it immediately.

Crowley, however, finds himself mesmerised.

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispers, so much affection in his voice Crowley doesn’t even know how to handle it. “I’m _so_ glad to have you with me. Come what may.”

And like it’s second nature and something they do every other day he suddenly turns his hand around, links their fingers with each other and squeezes Crowley gently. It’s an easy enough move, simple as can be, and he smiles a little dopely at the demon the whole time.

“What would I do without you?”

Crowley gapes at their interwoven hands and the fact that you can barely tell them apart now, and instantly begins to wonder whether he will be able to survive all of this.

Probably not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #PrayForCrowley
> 
> And for the next chapter: Our disaster husbands trying to find a way out of this mess - with some complications ;p
> 
> Until next time then!!


	3. Culprit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my friends!
> 
> This time I'm bringing you an extra long chapter :D  
> I was considering splitting it into two parts and posting the first one a little sooner, but there is seriously no good breaking point here, so I just had to wrap up the whole thing first and dump the entire monster on you in one go instead ;D
> 
> But I'm sure you don't mind a few extra words, right? ;)
> 
> Have fun!!
> 
> -

Aziraphale is just about to down his fifth glass of whiskey in one go as Crowley’s voice abruptly jolts him out of his reverie, exclaiming loudly, “As far as I see it, we’ve got three options here.”

Aziraphale raises his brows and studies Crowley intently. He actually assumed the demon would find some humour in the whole situation and taunt the living hell out of Aziraphale. After all, he has both humans and angels  _ cry  _ over him.

_ Sob  _ even.

Demons usually enjoy such a chaotic mess.

But Crowley seems oddly determined this time, like he can’t wait to find the solution to their problem and get back to how things were before. Like the circumstances are simply unacceptable and he needs to see them erased from the face of the earth immediately.

It’s a fairly peculiar and downright interesting behaviour and Aziraphale can’t help feeling somehow intrigued by it.

“First option,” Crowley announces, shoving one raised finger right into the angel’s face, “this whole bloody mess is just an accident.”

Aziraphale frowns as he wills the alcohol in his system to slowly disintegrate. He’s got a feeling he requires all the brain power he can muster at this point for the conversation that is about to follow.

“Accident?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Crowley merely shrugs. “Remember that one time you read a passage from a new book out loud and the furniture around you suddenly came to life and ran out on the streets?  _ That  _ kind of accident.”

Aziraphale can’t help a blush at the reminder. He recalls his own surprise rather vividly when suddenly the cupboard right behind him abruptly set into motion and almost ran him over in its haste to escape the confinement of Aziraphale’s shop. Closely followed by anything else furniture shaped that hadn’t been nailed down.

Including the chair Aziraphale had been sitting on at that point.

It took the angel the entire night to collect all his obnoxious fugitives, bring them back home and return them to their original state.

Well, apart from the little coffee table Aziraphale used to have in his backroom. Till this day he never found it anywhere and sometimes he wonders whether it’s still out there somewhere, roaming in the wilderness and having completely forgotten civilisation.

“So you think I’ve done this to myself?” Aziraphale checks. “By reading the wrong passage of a book?”

Crowley smirks. “I’m just saying there’s a possibility we’ve got no real culprit here. Just an honest mistake.”

For a moment Aziraphale feels offended that the demon might even consider such a thing - after all, he learned his lesson after that unfortunate event -, but he swallows down any sort of protest. Naturally it’s entirely possible none of this ever meant to happen and only came to this world by pure coincidence. Perhaps he ate, drank or touched something that wasn’t supposed to be eaten, drunk or touched in the first place, in the process starting this whole dilemma without even realising it.

Aziraphale hates to think he himself is to blame for this disaster, but unfortunately he can’t rule it out for good.

“I think, no matter what, we need a time table,” Crowley states. “We have to track back your steps, reconstruct where you went, with whom you communicated - that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale has to admit that’s a fairly good idea.

“Before we start on that, what are the other two options?” he finds himself asking nonetheless. 

Crowley fumbles with his sunglasses and for a second it seems as though he’s debating taking them off, however, just in the last moment he withdraws his hand again, the glasses staying firmly where they’ve been the whole time.

Aziraphale can’t keep himself from feeling strangely disappointed by that. 

“Option number two,” Crowley continues, his expression hardening. “Someone cursed you deliberately.”

Aziraphale nods along. That’s been his most prominent suspicion so far as well.

“The question, of course, is:  _ who _ ?” the demon adds.

Aziraphale sighs deeply. “I’m afraid after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t the list of beings who wish me ill grew a lot longer than before.”

He really hates to think about that. He always considered himself a largely polite and likeable individual on the grand schemes of things - even if some of his bookshop’s customers might disagree on that - and to imagine that now there are enough people out in the world willing and capable of throwing such a curse at him is all sorts of troubling.

All that Aziraphale ever wanted was to enjoy the indulgences of life and to be left alone. He never meant to collect a larger number of enemies along the way.

Why did this have to happen to him?

“I don’t know, angel,” Crowley says reluctantly as he tilts his head, deep in thought apparently. “I’m not really sure this is a problem caused by … well, our former Head Offices.”

Aziraphale arches a brow. “You don’t think so?”

“Think about it,” Crowley urges. “Both Heaven and Hell are criminally unimaginative, don’t you agree? This whole thing seems way out of their league.”

He does have a point, Aziraphale has to agree.

This enchantment is way too complicated, way too complex. Above and Below usually tend to be more direct in their ways.

“I’d rule Heaven out of principle,” Crowley states. “First of all, using  _ love  _ as some sort of punishment … as a weapon … I don’t know, I can’t picture the Almighty having an almighty time with this, you know? At least it seems a bit risky for the angel lot to take that chance.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to mull Crowley’s argument over in his head. The demon sure has some good arguments which shouldn’t be ignored.

“Not to mention the fact that  _ even  _ Heaven isn’t so stupid to curse you with some spell that has an ugly effect on their own kind as well.” Crowley snorts at that. “Your little angel lover roaming the sea right now is the best example for that. It would just be outright dumb to put yourself at risk like that. And though Heaven doesn’t possess many brain cells, they’ve got at least enough for  _ that _ .”

Simply on autopilot Aziraphale takes offence at Crowley’s flippant words and finds himself opening his mouth to defend the Heavenly institution, just like he always did for thousands of years. But then he suddenly remembers that there’s actually no need for that anymore, that he’s allowed to do and think whatever the bloody hell he wants. No mindless obedience, no poorly explaining away lots of Heaven’s questionable decisions.

So in the end Aziraphale simply grins widely and feels good about himself, not even giving a damn that he might look a bit mad right now.

Crowley at least studies him for a moment with his eyebrows raised, seemingly wondering whether he should start to get concerned about the angel’s mental health.

“You’re right,” Aziraphale pipes in, the smile on his lips getting even brighter. Here he is,  _ agreeing  _ with a  _ demon  _ about Heaven’s lack and failures, and the sky doesn’t open up and lets thunder and lightning rain down on him. Instead there is a pleasant sensation of rebellion and free will fluttering in his chest and it feels strangely exciting.

“Heaven is most likely not at fault here,” he admits. “This is way too advanced for their narrow-minded thought process.”

Crowley keeps on looking at him silently for a moment, his sunglasses sliding to the tip of his nose to reveal the remarkable snake eyes behind Aziraphale always wishes to see more often. He’s obviously not really sure how to respond, way too used to the angel speaking in Heaven’s favour to know what to do with a situation like this.

In the end, though, he just decides to clear his throat and let it pass on for now. “That’s right … narrow-minded … uh.”

He wrinkles his forehead before pushing his sunglasses back into their place.

“And Hell … well, they’re not exactly a fountain of creativity either,” Crowley points out, starting to fidget awkwardly. “Granted, cursing an angel with a love spell … abusing love as a punishment to hurt him … it sounds kind of brilliant, in its own way. Very  _ hellish _ .”

Quite right.

It certainly has a cruel and heartless sort of poetry to it. At least for Hell’s standards.

Aziraphale can’t help a shiver at the mere idea.

“But at the same time it doesn’t feel very right,” Crowley has to confess, shaking his head in disbelief. “At least I can’t imagine someone like Hastur coming up with something that ingenious. Hell has been set in its ways for millennia, just like Heaven, and I don’t see it changing anytime soon.”

Aziraphale, however, assesses him pensively. “But you shouldn’t ignore that this enchantment doesn’t work on demons, apparently. This might mean something.”

Crowley simply stares at him and freezes for a second, a strange expression flickering over his features Aziraphale is absolutely unable to decipher. In the end Crowley begins to squirm uncomfortably and ducks his head to avoid the angel’s intense gaze.

“Yeah, right,” he mumbles quietly. “That … yeah, that might mean … er, something.”

Aziraphale quirks his head to one side, not really sure how to interpret this strange behaviour, but too afraid to ask and risk chasing the demon off like a skittish deer. He seriously doesn’t want to see Crowley rushing out of the door and not coming back for the next couple of days.

“I’m just insinuating …” Aziraphale takes a deep breath, even though he technically doesn’t need to. “It seems demons are immune to this enchantment. And that might indicate Hell’s involvement in the whole thing. Somehow.”

Crowley snorts. “Or maybe it’s just because we’re dark creatures, as far away from love as possible. We’re blind to it. Strangers.”

He tries for nonchalant, like he’s simply sharing a well-known fact, but Aziraphale is fairly certain he hears some bitterness wavering in Crowley’s voice.

And it breaks Aziraphale’s heart.

Because Crowley apparently truly believes this and the angel just knows it’s so very wrong. Granted, demons surely don’t dance around distributing flowers to everyone in their near vicinity while bursting into songs about hope and love and rainbows, but Aziraphale wholeheartedly believes that they possess the capacity to care.

Crowley surely is the best example.

He’s never been  _ bad  _ in the sense people make his kind out to be. Sure, he enjoys to inconvenience humans and bring mischief to whoever is nearby, but he also cares on a much deeper level. About the world, about children, about making sure Aziraphale only ever gets the best sweets … 

Crowley has a big heart, even if he somehow doesn’t believe it himself.

And Aziraphale is sure that he’s not really the odd exception of his kind. Not solely. In their own way demons care about things and beings, almost like everyone else. The angel is cautious to call it  _ love _ , even on a good day, but it’s at least  _ something _ . Close enough that such a strong curse like Aziraphale’s would have some effect on them as well.

Considering, of course, they’re an absolutely innocent party who have nothing to do with the entire mess whatsoever in the first place.

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispers and reaches out to take Crowley’s hand into his once more. It’s weird, in the thousands of years he barely touched the demon at all, mostly by chance or accident than his own volition, and now he almost can’t keep himself together. Aziraphale would like to blame the curse, claiming that it has some sort of influence on him as well, but if he’s truthful with himself things started to change when the apocalypse didn’t happen and they disconnected with their respective Head Offices to be on their own side. Until that point there had always been a cloud hanging over their heads, watchful eyes following them around, and Aziraphale never allowed himself to have the things he desired the most. To keep them safe. To keep them  _ alive _ .

But now this obstacle is gone for good (or at least for a while) and Aziraphale found himself reaching out, keen to  _ touch _ , to  _ feel _ , for the last three months now. It’s getting harder and harder to resist completely.

And it certainly doesn’t help that Crowley is responding so positively to each contact between them. Leaning into the touch, his muscles relaxing, his body becoming pliant.

Aziraphale is not exactly sure whether the demon is even realising this is happening at all, but it sure as heaven and hell doesn’t make the situation any easier.

“You’re not strangers to love,” he objects, squeezing Crowley’s fingers. “You’re just … a bit different.”

Crowley gapes at him for a moment with an incredulous expression. “Angel, that is -”

“It’s  _ not  _ nonsense!” Aziraphale cuts in right away, not in the mood to argue with Crowley about this. “This enchantment is strong enough to render a young and vital angel like Imael absolutely useless and therefore it certainly has more than enough force to affect a demon as well. Maybe not exactly in the same way, but it wouldn’t go unnoticed. I’m  _ sure  _ of that.”

For a minute or so Crowley appears fairly determined to fight the angel on this, probably already gathering all the right arguments in his head to get his point across and wondering whether he should miracle it into a flashy Powerpoint presentation for the dramatic effect.

Aziraphale at least braces himself for anything, but in the end Crowley merely deflates, apparently having no strength to put this into a passionate battle.

(And maybe, hopefully, because he kind of agrees with the angel. In some way. Deep down. At least enough to have some doubts.)

“You’re  _ really  _ certain Hell is behind this?” he asks instead, disbelief impregnating his tone.

“I’m just saying it’s suspicious, that’s all,” Aziraphale points out, not ready to accuse a sole culprit yet. “This spell should be strong enough to influence a demon as well - and obviously, for some specific reason, it doesn’t. You’re the best example for that.” He flashes Crowley a quick look. “And I agree, Hell in its whole is stuck in its ways just like Heaven, but I’m sure there must be someone down there who is capable of thinking outside the box. Don’t you think?”

Crowley’s expression turns thoughtful again as he rubs his thumb absently over Aziraphale’s skin, sending a surprisingly pleasant shiver down the angel’s spine.

“Well, there might be one or two,” he concedes reluctantly. “No big shots or anything, but … well, blessed with some adequate brains, I’d say.”

Aziraphale perks up. “Yes?”

“Narek is one of them,” Crowley explains, pulling a face at the mere mention of that name. “Hate to say it, but he’s smart enough to pull this off. And he’s been despising my guts for an eternity now.”

Aziraphale frowns as an uncomfortable sensation begins to bloom inside his belly. “Wait a moment - Isn’t that the demon who sent a swarm of eagles after you when you were in your snake form?”

“His idea of a ‘joke’.” Crowley scoffs. “That’s what he told our Head Office, at least.”

Aziraphale grinds his teeth at the reminder. It’s been kind of a close call back then and Crowley stayed wary of any birdlike creature for a very long time afterwards, obviously still haunted by the experience.

Aziraphale swore to himself back then that he wouldn’t hesitate to make this Narek pay for what he did, would he ever meet him.

So far that didn’t happen.

But perhaps his chance has finally come.

“You think it might have been his idea?” Aziraphale wonders, hoping despite everything that the answer is a big YES so he will finally have a chance to punch this demon in the face.

“Could be,” Crowley admits. “He’s cruel in his own special kind of way. Hell never really got his way of thinking, that’s why he stayed a lowly demon till this very day … but yeah, you shouldn’t underestimate him.” He purses his lips. “If we’re seriously considering Hell’s involvement, he would be on top of my list.”

Aziraphale straightens his back and grips Crowley’s hand a little tighter, not at all willing to let go anytime soon.

“Like I said, he hates my guts,” the demon continues after glancing at their joined hands some more. “And I know he’s been a big advocate for the apocalypse. I’m sure he’s majorly pissed off it didn’t happen. So hurting you in this twisted way and by extension getting back at me as well … it sounds like the kind of thing he does. Might even just be the beginning.”

Aziraphale shudders at the thought. He doesn’t even want to picture the whole situation getting worse and escalating into something horrible.

“You think he might be acting alone or with Hell’s supervision?”

Crowley groans. “Who knows, angel?” He throws his free hand into the air in frustration. “Maybe it’s not him at all. After all, there are a few more down there who are able to think for themselves. Perhaps it’s someone I wouldn’t even dream about in a million years. And every single one of them is  _ very  _ furious we cancelled the bloody apocalypse.”

“But they’re also terrified of you because you bathed in a tub of holy water and asked for a rubber duck,” Aziraphale points out, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Crowley can’t help a smirk. “Yeah, that too.”

Aziraphale still remembers the horrified expressions of all the demons bearing witness to him surrounding himself with holy water while wearing Crowley’s face. He’s never seen so much fear, so much utter shock, and only the glass separating them kept them from running away crying and screaming, Aziraphale is fairly certain of that.

“Perhaps this is their way of getting back at us?” he suggests. “They’re still too scared to approach us directly, but I can imagine them thirsting for revenge nonetheless.”

Crowley nods in confirmation. “Sounds about right.”

“So maybe this is their way of achieving that?” Aziraphale almost leaps to his feet, getting a little excited by some clear pictures forming inside his head, but that would have meant letting go of Crowley’s hand and he’s not very eager to do that just yet. “Like you said, punishing me with  _ love  _ \- it’s wicked and cruel. Maybe they realised they had to start thinking outside the box with us and turned to demons like Narek for advice. Even an old dog is able to learn new tricks if the situation demands it.”

Crowley, however, still doesn’t seem very convinced. “I don’t know …”

“It’s at least a possibility,” Aziraphale urges. “It would explain the spell having no effect on you. Unless you can think of another reason why that is? Besides the strangers-to-love nonsense.”

Crowley appears suddenly very uncomfortable very fast as he disentangles himself from Aziraphale’s grip and puts as much distance between them as their current positions allow.

“Um, no, no,” he mumbles, shaking his head vehemently, “I can’t think … no, not really … no other reason ...”

Aziraphale arches a brow as he both mourns the loss of contact and starts to become once again worried by Crowley’s behaviour. “My dear, are you alright?”

Crowley tries to push his sunglasses even deeper on his face, like he’s hoping to cover up any sort of emotion that might show on his features. “Yeah, yeah, fine,” he mutters. “You’re right, might be Hell. Might even be Narek. At least that bastard would know what’s going on, he’s like a weasel. Standing in dark corners and listens to everything …”

“Crowley …”

“Right now everything is possible …”

“Crowley!”

“And we shouldn’t forget that there’s more out there than just Heaven and Hell. I mean, maybe you pissed off some powerful witch or something.”

Aziraphale huffs, frustrated by Crowley’s attempts to divert the topic of conversation into a new direction. There’s clearly something the demon is not sharing with him and that’s not a nice feeling.

But he also knows from experience that it will be next to impossible to get Crowley to open up when he starts to act like this.

So he closes his eyes and submits himself to the moment for the time being. “I’m not in the habit of ‘pissing off’ witches.”

“You’re pissing off people  _ constantly _ ,” Crowley objects. “Have you seen the  _ Yelp  _ reviews for your bookshop?”

Aziraphale frowns in confusion. “What is  _ Yelp _ ?”

Crowley snorts. “I’m just saying you’re not the actual ray of sunshine you might think you are. On the contrary, you’re an outright bastard sometimes.”

Not too long ago Aziraphale would have felt fairly insulted by this. Now he only smiles sweetly. “And you think I stepped on someone toes and that made them curse me with obsessive and unhealthy love?”

Crowley shrugs. “You can be  _ very  _ annoying.”

“Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

Aziraphale pouts right into Crowley’s face, but at the same time he knows he shouldn’t just dismiss the demon’s input. There are quite a few supernatural beings right here on earth, some of them even powerful enough to pull such an endeavour off.

And though he can’t currently think of one specific person angry enough with him to ruin his life like that, it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. 

Oh my, this is already getting way too complicated.

“And we also shouldn’t forget option number three,” Crowley chips in, raising three fingers into the air demonstratively. “Might be important.”

Aziraphale can’t help rubbing his temples and groaning lowly. He’s really starting to hate basically every single living creature on earth, just out of principle.

“And what might be that option?” he wonders, sighing.

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” Crowley explains, an odd expression flashing over his features as his gaze fixes on Aziraphale. He’s already began to move back a bit closer to the angel, as though despite everything he’s just unable to keep much of a distance between them. “What if we’re dealing with  _ good  _ intentions here?”

Aziraphale blinks a few times, sheer bewilderment clouding his view for a second. “What?” he asks, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“We’re talking about  _ love  _ here, right?” Crowley says. “And that’s usually considered a good thing, as I’ve heard. So what …?” He pauses for a moment, assessing the angel quietly. “So what if someone was actually trying to do you a favour? Bestow you with all the love and whatnot?”

Aziraphale widens his eyes.

He hadn’t even considered this possibility, not at all, but Crowley’s words certainly have some wisdom to them. Aziraphale feels his skin starting to tingle at the mere possibility.

“You think …?”

Crowley shrugs. “Why not? It might’ve just been a grateful soul eager to do some blessing for you and in the end went a bit overboard with it. I mean, I guess the basic idea of this spell is a nice one, I would say. It just got way out of control.”

Oh my.

Why didn’t he think of this before?

He’s been so focused on believing some being was determined to punish him somehow that he didn’t even entertain alternatives.

Aziraphale suddenly finds some hope blossoming inside of him.

The thought of someone trying to do him harm and make him suffer by the hands of the most wonderful thing in the world, turning it into something ugly and selfish in the process, broke his heart in several manners. It felt so  _ wrong _ , so fundamentally against everything he was created for.

But if someone actually attempted to do something nice for him? If this entire mess is simply the result of too much care?

It would truly be a relief.

“You think this might be possible?” he breathes, hope swinging in his voice.

“Sure,” Crowley says easily. “Too much heart and good intentions - it often leads to dilemma.”

Aziraphale decides to dismiss this comment because he’s honestly not in the mood for any kind of argument. “But who might do such a thing?”

“You’re an  _ angel _ ,” Crowley reminds him, like Aziraphale might have forgotten that little fact. “You’ve done lots of good deeds in the past. And most of the time you weren’t as subtle as you think you were.”

Aziraphale pulls a face, but can’t exactly contradict. Unfortunately the demon has a point.

“And I’m sure you just didn’t stop with your little blessings after the nonapocalypse, right?” Crowley shoots him a crooked smile. “You can’t simply drop six-thousand years like they were nothing. Well,  _ I _ sure couldn’t.”

Aziraphale looks at him curiously. “You’re still doing bad deeds?”

“Just a small chaos here and there,” Crowley admits casually. “To keep me entertained. Don’t worry, I didn’t start any World Wars -”

“You  _ never  _ did such a thing,” Aziraphale points out helpfully.

Crowley scoffs. “Just a few mice in the House of Parliament. A minor breakout at the local zoo. Or the other day I shifted some train tracks in slightly different directions.” He grins widely. “Don’t worry, no animals or humans were hurt in the process.”

As if Aziraphale would believe this for even for a millisecond.

“I know, my dear,” he whispers fondly.

Crowley starts to squirm awkwardly and leans away from the angel again. “I’m just saying … well, something good you did recently might have led to this mess. Something pop in your mind?”

Aziraphale creases his forehead. Crowley is surely right, only because their respective Head Offices cut them off and they’re on their own for the first time ever doesn’t mean they just stopped being who they were. Granted, he did lots of miracles merely on Heaven’s orders alone, but at the same time he spread his blessings all over the world without his superior’s input.

Simply because it was right.  _ Good _ .

And he certainly didn’t have any intentions ceasing to do so after the almost-apocalypse.

“Well,” he begins tentatively, “I’m not sure what actions of mine might justify such measures, but … um, I helped an older gentleman put his groceries away the other day. And I shared some of my chocolate with a crying woman on the bus. I also healed a puppy from a nasty colic and gave some directions to a group of tourists who had gotten lost -”

“I’m talking about something a bit bigger than that,” Crowley cuts in, probably aiming for annoyed, but clearly unable to hide the hint of affection in his tone. “Something  _ grander _ .”

“Um …”

“Perhaps in association with love itself?”

Oh.

OH.

“Rachel,” he whispers, his eyes going wide.

Crowley perks up immediately. “Who’s Rachel?”

Aziraphale is pretty sure he’s imagining the mild edge in the demon’s voice.

“Well, she is …” He starts to fumble with his sleeves, anxiety filling his very being. He has never meant to bring this up to Crowley.  _ Ever _ . “I met her about a month ago. In that nice little bakery which makes those wonderful flaky pastries that feel so very alive on your tongue, all the flavours and the exquisite homemade jam, and which let you wonder whether there might be a second Heaven out there after all, a  _ better  _ Heaven -”

“ _ Angel _ !” Crowley growls impatiently.

Aziraphale flinches before blushing a little and clearing his throat. “Well, yes, I met her there. Poor thing was bawling her eyes out. I bought her a coffee and we started talking …” He presses his lips into a thin line. “Her boyfriend had just proposed to her a few days before and her family didn’t approve. They began to pressure her to break up with the fellow and marry one of their friends’ sons instead.”

Crowley raises a brow. “And I assume you couldn’t just let it be but started to meddle instead?”

“She was  _ so devastated _ ,” Aziraphale says with emphasis. “Her family hadn’t been thrilled about the relationship before, but now they were putting so much pressure on the poor girl. They were talking about disinheritance, can you believe that? Only because she had the ‘audacity’ to fall in love.”

Aziraphale would never be able to understand such behaviour. It should be the parents’ job to make their children happy, no matter what. Aziraphale could never handle seeing someone he cares for so very deeply so absolutely crushed and desperate.

Never.

“And so you meddled and eventually managed to change the parents’ minds?” Crowley draws his conclusion as he tilts his head. “How did you do that?”

Aziraphale fidgets uncomfortably.

Oh dear.

He had really hoped it would never come to this.

“In my defence, the parents were unbelievably stubborn,” Aziraphale urges. “I tried to nudge them in the right direction, I sent love and good graces - but nothing worked. At the end of the day they were rather willing to kill the boyfriend and bury him in their impressive backyard than agree to a marriage.” He takes a heavy breath. “So I had to resort to unorthodox measures.”

Crowley squints his eyes at him, most likely already sensing that he wouldn’t like the outcome. “Angel, what did you do?”

Aziraphale ducks his head and stares at his hands as though they’re the most fascinating and captivating things he’s ever encountered. “I might have … revealed my true identity to them.”

For a moment there is complete silence.

And then Crowley gasps for air.

“You did  _ what _ ?”

Aziraphale cowers forward and attempts to make himself as small as possible. “They just wouldn’t listen and … and … my wings basically popped out without my permission. And … in the end I just went with it.”

He recalls the stunned expressions of Rachel and her parents vividly as they stared at Aziraphale’s wings in absolute disbelief. At first the angel had been shocked himself and quickly considered to erase everyone’s memories and retreat as fast as manageable, only leaving a fleeting confusion behind, but in the end he simply couldn’t abandon Rachel like that. She was a kind soul and didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

And, in hindsight, if Aziraphale is being honest with himself, the appearance of his wings wasn’t that much of an accident as he likes himself to tell.

Not that he ever intends to confess this to Crowley, though.

“I … I basically told the parents that the union of Rachel and Marcus is blessed by Heaven itself and that they shouldn’t defy the Divine. I … persuaded them. Gently.”

Crowley folds his arms across his chest. “So you put the fear of God into them?”

“Well …”

Crowley groans in frustration. “Angel, what the bloody hell were you even thinking? You can’t just wander around and spill your secrets to everyone nearby.”

Aziraphale sends a dark glare in the demon’s direction. “Don’t act like you’ve never done such a thing,” he says indignantly. “I’ve even seen you do it while I was standing  _ right next to you _ . So don’t pretend you’re on a high horse here. It doesn’t suit you.” He huffs. “Not to mention that you’re unable to keep yourself on a horse’s back anyway, even if your life would depend -”

“Alright, I get it,” Crowley interrupts, gritting his teeth. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“I’m just saying it’s not a big deal,” Aziraphale promises, his voice getting a bit softer now. “The Salinger clan is an old and very respected family and they swore to me to keep my secret safe. Furthermore, in these times and days, who would even believe them? If they would come forward, everyone would think them insane and it certainly would destroy their reputation. They wouldn’t risk that.” He shakes his head. “Besides, after we found some common ground they actually turned out to be pretty lovely people. They only want what’s best for Rachel. Unfortunately they never really learned from their own parents how to communicate with each other properly. It’s a shame and led to a lot of misunderstandings, but we’re working on it. I’m sure the wedding will be magnificent and everyone is going to cry tears of joy.”

Aziraphale smiles proudly, always happy to remind himself how he was able to help this family, while Crowley continues to stare at him, his jaw going slack.

“The  _ Salinger  _ family?” he eventually asks, his voice unsteady.

Aziraphale sits up a bit straighter. “Yes,” he confirms. “You know them?”

“The  _ SALINGER  _ family?”

The angel blinks. “... Yes?”

“The Salinger family who’ve got a ridiculously enormous mansion at the northern part of London?”

“... Yes?”

“The Salinger  _ witch coven _ ??”

Aziraphale blinks.

Once.

Twice.

“ _ What _ ?”

Crowley growls deeply as he rubs his palms over his face. “Damnit, angel, you seriously never heard of them before? They’re going back for  _ generations _ !”

Aziraphale is honestly not sure what to say here.

Granted, he picked up some rumours here and there, but he never heard a concrete name before. And he was never curious enough to ask further questions.

A mistake, as it appears.

“So you helped a Salinger witch being reunited with the love of her life and shortly afterwards you’re infected with a bloody love spell?” Crowley snorts. “Well, it seems we found our prime suspect.”

Aziraphale widens his eyes. “What,  _ Rachel _ ?” He feels his entire body going rigid. “No, no, she wouldn’t …”

“She wouldn’t bestow the angel who helped her such a great deal with eternal love?” Crowley finishes the sentence as he raises a pointed eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Are you sure about that?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth.

And closes it again.

Damn.

“Angel,” Crowley sighs, “what would you do without me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes a deep breath*
> 
> Yeah, what would Aziraphale do without Crowley, huh? >.<  
> I hope you had fun with the chapter and are properly confused now ;D Will it be as easy as Crowley thinks? Or is there something else?
> 
> You will see ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Until next time then!!
> 
> (P.S.: FYI, Aziraphale's old coffee table is absolutely fine and lives a free and happy life in the wilderness, roaming the country ;D)


	4. Rachel Salinger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!
> 
> Here we are again :D  
> A bit later than I actually had planned, but damn, that unbearable heatwave rendered my brain useless for the better part of last week >.< Like seriously, who invented heat anyway??
> 
> And I'm still not sure if my brain is working properly again after that ordeal or if it's damaged beyond repair, so if you find any mistakes you can keep them, bathe them and put them in cute outfits xD
> 
> So without further ado, have fun ^^
> 
> -

Crowley is pretty sure Aziraphale will one day be the death of him.

He’s gonna perish due to frustration and a constant headache so strong no respectable demon would be able to handle it for very long. It’s going to be a hideous and excruciating and overall absolutely unnecessary demise which certainly will find itself mentioned in a special section of Hell’s chronicles soon afterwards.

As an urgent warning to never ever consort with angels in any way.

“How can you _not_ know such things?” Crowley groans exasperatedly. “It’s not like you moved here yesterday.”

“It’s not like I can know _everything_ ,” Aziraphale tries to defend himself, squirming in his seat. “I have a lot of important things to do. I don’t waste my time researching about some _witches_ …”

Crowley takes a deep breath. How comes he cares about this idiot so much?

 _Why_?

“They’re one of the most powerful covens _in the world_ ,” Crowley points out through gritted teeth. “Rumour has it they summoned a dragon once.”

Aziraphale scrunches up his nose. “Why would they do such a thing?”

That is, admittedly, a good question.

There’s not much you can do with a dragon. They’re completely untamable, rude, brash and love to do their business basically everywhere. You’d be much happier with a pet hamster than a dragon eating your house and crapping it out onto your backyard afterwards.

“Beats me,” Crowley confesses. “Witches are weird.”

 _Very_ weird.

He usually tends to avoid them, as much as possible.

“But why wouldn’t Rachel _say_ anything?” Aziraphale asks, still sounding sceptical, like he wants Crowley to be wrong in this matter really badly. “After revealing my true identity that wouldn’t have been too much of a stretch, don’t you agree?”

Crowley takes a fairly deep breath. Naturally he doesn’t need any kind of oxygen, but he likes to indulge in this very dramatic show of frustration it brings along.

“I’m pretty sure she simply assumed you knew,” Crowley points out. “After all, it’s no secret to both Heaven and Hell.”

“That doesn’t mean -”

“I’m certain she was wearing a lot of talismans and amulets as well.”

“Well, she surely had a lot of nice accessories on her person, but -”

“And she must be _reeking_ of magic.”

“Well, I don’t make it a habit of smelling people, it isn’t exactly polite in any way -

“And their bloody mansion is probably _brimming_ with magic, too.”

“There is indeed a peculiar aura to that building, but it’s also a very old house and you know how old houses -”

Crowley just raises his hand to make the angel stop talking. “Face it, Aziraphale, you were _blind_.”

Aziraphale glares at him as he opens his mouth, most likely to start a full-on argument, starting with an at least 20-minutes angry rant before delving into some random scientific or philosophical bullet points which could take up days depicting in colourful detail if Crowley would let him have his way.

And sometimes - too often, to be honest - Crowley indeed lets him have his way.

Because he is a weak moron and his soft spot for the angel is way too big to even comprehend.

But now they honestly don’t have any time for one of Aziraphale’s endless rambles.

“Just drop it, okay?” Crowley cuts in before the angel even has a chance to get more than two words out. “Let’s just dispose of this entire mess once and for all, what do you say? Maybe we’ll even make it in time for your horrendously gloomy play tonight.”

Aziraphale scoffs at that. “You didn’t even want to go in the first place.”

“I’d take it over having to deal with a blasted _love spell_ ,” Crowley urges with emphasis as he rolls his eyes behind the sunglasses. “I’d take _all_ the gloomy plays over it. Every single one. Until the end of existence.”

Aziraphale assesses him for a while, apparently not exactly sure how to rate Crowley’s real dedication in this matter. His quiet scrutiny is, as always, intense and soul-crushing and Crowley finds himself having a painfully hard time to meet the angel’s gaze with indifference while simultaneously hiding the anxiety creeping up on him.

Crowley’s skin begins to itch, his throat is choking up, and he curses this bloody enchantment so damned graphically in his head that even his kin in Hell would’ve blushed at the profanities.

(While naturally cheering him on at the same time.)

“How about I just call Rachel?” Aziraphale proposes eventually, absolutely oblivious to Crowley’s inner turmoil. “Perhaps we can sort this whole thing out in a heartbeat.”

He’s already reaching out to grab the earphone of his antique telephone, more than keen to end his misery right here, right now. With all the means necessary.

Crowley, however, can’t help a grimace. “And you’re sure this enchantment doesn’t work via voice as well?”

The determination in the angel’s features vanishes instantly as he freezes to ice, his fingers merely inches from the phone. “You think that might be possible?”

Crowley arches a brow at that. “How should I know? I’m a bloody demon, I have no idea how love spells usually work. That’s why I’m asking _you_.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flickers back and forth between Crowley and the phone, apparently a heated debate going on inside his mind now. Uncertainty tinges his cheeks as he mulls over the possibilities.

And in the end he merely huffs. “No, no, that is _nonsense_.”

However, he stays motionless, staring at the phone in front of him as if there actually might be a chance it would eat him wholly in the next few seconds.

“You’re _really_ sure?” Crowley prods.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Yes … I mean, maybe … I mean -” He takes a shaky breath. “Like I said, there are countless different enchantments, I didn’t even have the time to scratch the surface yet. So I guess … it sounds, well, truly ridiculous, but - well, I can’t entirely eliminate it, right? Not if I don’t have all the facts.”

So he withdraws his hand, looking very uncomfortable in the process.

“I think it would be best for the time being if you’d just avoid any kind of contact with - well, with basically anyone,” Crowley suggests. “Apart from me. Obviously.”

Aziraphale glances at the phone again, as though suddenly, with Crowley’s words hanging in the air, the urge to call everyone he knows and even people beyond that is suddenly so impossibly strong he needs all his angelic strength to resist it. 

“You … you think that really necessary?” the angel wonders tentatively.

Crowley merely huffs. Aziraphale always tends to shoo his customers away as soon as they have the audacity to pass the threshold to his bookshop and more than once he buried himself so deep in literature and research he didn’t see another living being, not to mention the sun, for days or even weeks. So it shouldn’t exactly be a hardship to stay away from humans for a while, right?

Aziraphale, however, looks like Crowley kidnapped his pet puppy and replaced it with a bowl of bugs.

“You want more humans to fall in love with you?” the demon points out. “Or even _angels_?”

Aziraphale grimaces. “No, of course not,” he states with emphasis. “It’s just that …”

He trails off, apparently not sure what his reasoning even is.

Crowley can’t help a sigh. “I know it can’t be easy only having _me_ as your sole contact,” he says, his chest clutching painfully as the words leave his mouth, “but for now I really think it best -”

“Oh, don’t be daft!” Aziraphale cuts in indignantly. “If I would have been able to choose only one being in the whole of existence, past or present, to have at my side during this ordeal, naturally it would’ve been you all along. That’s not even up for discussion.”

He sounds so sure, so bloody determined, like imagining anything else would be the biggest waste of time in the history of the entire galaxy, and Crowley’s body feels very warm all of a sudden.

Pleasantly warm.

Damn.

The desire to lean in, take the angel’s hand again, feel his soft skin, his strong grip - it’s getting overwhelming pretty fast.

This stupid enchantment is indeed ridiculously powerful if it’s even able to put cracks into Crowley’s carefully crafted walls. Those have been unwavering and indestructible for very long millennia now and the demon could always rely on them, even in the darkest of times.

Don’t show, don’t tell, don’t even twitch a muscle.

Okay, granted, Crowley is fairly aware that sometimes he still looks at the angel like a lovestruck fool, but it doesn’t happen _that_ often and thankfully Aziraphale is such a clueless bastard Crowley had been capable of getting away with it for a long time.

But this spell - it’s calling out to him. It’s whispering into his ear, tempting him with ideas Crowley locked away eternities ago. It paints pictures of closeness, of affection, of smiles and sweet words. It shows him images of light and gentle touches.

It makes him soppy and cliched and longing all at once.

And it needs to go _now_.

Crowley is fairly sure he can’t take this for long.

“How about I’m just gonna pay this Rachel a quick visit?” he proposes as he desperately tries to get his annoying body functions under control. “Even if she’s not responsible she might have some useful tips. She’s a witch after all.”

Yes, this is good.

A clear goal, a target he can concentrate his focus on.

Far away from Aziraphale and his dazzling eyes and his soft features and that adorable crease that appears when he knits his brows together … 

Ah _fuck_.

Crowley really needs to get out of here!

Aziraphale, though, doesn’t seem too eager to see the demon rush out of the door. “You want to approach the member of a powerful witch coven? All on your own?”

Crowley is on the verge of announcing he’d rather deal with a pack of hostile witches than stay in this room for ten minutes longer and accidentally blurt something out that should’ve stayed hidden for the rest of time itself, but on the last second he’s able to bite his tongue and swallow down whatever confession started to form in his throat. 

Instead he states, “I will be fine,”, hoping he sounds at least halfway confident.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, a tenderness swinging in his tone Crowley isn’t sure he’s strong enough to handle at this point, “I don’t want you to walk into trouble because of me. Are you _really_ sure I shouldn’t just call her and sort this out that way? Or at least give her a heads-up you’re coming by for a visit?”

Crowley snorts as he leans back a little on the couch, praying that some distance might make his head work properly again. “I seriously don’t know how these spells even operate. If she’s honestly responsible for this, would she be immune to her own magic? Or might she fall victim to it like the rest of the humans before her?”

Earthly magic is messy and complicated and way too crazy for Crowley to even comprehend it fully. 

“What if it’s the latter?” he wonders. “What if she falls under your bloody spell and loses any ability to function at all? We can’t afford to risk that, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip nervously and Crowley refuses to find himself mesmerised by the gesture.

“But - a phone call?” the angel asks again. “I don’t think it could do much damage.”

Crowley raises a brow. “Are you _sure_? One-hundred percent?”

Aziraphale fidgets awkwardly under the demon’s intense gaze. “Well, more like ninety-six percent …”

“Not enough, angel,” Crowley objects. “We need absolute certainty on this.”

Aziraphale pulls a face like a petulant toddler and for a moment Crowley expects a colourful argument coming his way. But in the end he only gets a, “What about a letter?”

Crowley tilts his head. “A letter?”

“This way I could tell Rachel the details,” the angel points out. “ _And_ I could keep her from roasting you on the spot. After all, a demon approaching her might cause some intense reactions.”

Crowley finds himself smiling softly. Aziraphale’s concern is truly endearing. And absolutely unnecessary.

“Witches can’t harm me,” the demons says, chuckling slightly. “I mean, they can most certainly try, but they won’t be very successful.”

“But you just said they’re a fairly powerful witch coven,” Aziraphale urges. “I don’t want you to walk into any kind of danger.”

“Angel …”

“I would never forgive myself for that.”

It’s charming and sweet and a thousand other things Crowley doesn’t even dare to name in order to keep his sanity. So instead of keeping on fighting and having to deal with Aziraphale getting even more worried and using his mighty puppy eyes along the way, Crowley merely makes a vague hand gesture and mumbles, “Go on, write your bloody letter then.”

It’s a quick affair in the end. At first Aziraphale seems to consider doing it the old-fashioned way, with quill and ink and probably some candlelight too, just for the sake of the proper atmosphere, and Crowley already starts to dread having to wait _forever_ for the angel to wrap up his ridiculously detailed outpours, the whole time being absolutely unable not to stare at Aziraphale creasing his forehead in concentration as he licks his lips every ten seconds, like on clockwork, the movement so innocent and harmless, yet _so bloody dangerous_ just the same … 

But thankfully the angel decides to go the quick route and miracles a perfectly finished letter right into his hands, making Crowley release a breath of relief.

“This should explain the situation to Rachel,” he announces as he hands over the letter, totally oblivious to the shiver running down Crowley’s spine when their fingers brush for a split second. “Please don’t do anything reckless, though. Rachel does know about you, but still …”

Crowley can’t help a pleased smile at that. “You talked about me with her?”

It’s hard to detect in the flimsy light of the back room, but Crowley is pretty sure to see a light blush colouring Aziraphale’s cheeks at these words.

“Well, once or twice,” the angel mumbles as he fidgets with his hands, “Just a little bit …”

Something warm spreads within Crowley’s chest and the urge to grab the angel and pull him into a tight embrace gets almost unbearably stronger all of a sudden.

Damnit.

“Just … promise me to be careful, alright?” Aziraphale’s voice is tender, concerned, and it almost makes Crowley lose his mind. 

So he can’t do anything else but back off, with the exit already in plain sight, and say around a smile that hopefully looks reasonably confident, “Don’t worry, angel. I will be fine.”

 

\-----

 

Well.

It turns out he wouldn’t be fine.

At all.

 

\-----

 

The very first obstacle is leaving the bookshop at all.

As he steps outside onto the sidewalk and takes a breath of fresh air (or more like a breath of polluted London air) his whole being starts to _yearn_ in a way that almost makes his knee buckle. The thought of leaving Aziraphale behind, not being close to him even for a few hours, is nearly too much for him to handle.

Bloody hell, that spell is _seriously_ strong.

Only the fact that Crowley is so used to shoving down his feelings and ignoring them until they’re just a dull echo, at least for a little while (mostly until the next time Aziraphale smiles at him or something), lets him move his feet at all.

It’s still hard and for a moment or two he honestly considers turning around or breaking out into tears, perhaps even both, but he reminds himself over and over to stay above these things.

If Aziraphale so much as suspects that the enchantment has its effect on Crowley as well, he’ll keep the demon far away from him, just like everybody else. And Crowley can’t let that happen.

Not to mention that he won’t let some stupid magic reduce him to a crying mess anyway, thank you very much!

He’d rather bite his tongue off.

So in the end he grits his teeth, chokes the emotions the spell is trying to drag out of their hiding space back where they came from, and spreads his wings.

This needs to end _fast_.

 

\-----

 

The second obstacle, however, are the witches themselves.

Fucking witches.

 

\-----

 

It’s not hard to spot the Salinger mansion.

It’s big and pretentious and overall way too ridiculous considering only a handful of people actually live in there to begin with. A status of wealth and power, including a swimming pool, a tennis court and a gigantic garage for cars which will never ever drive the streets again.

And Crowley loves it.

It represents everything that is wrong with the world in a way the demon couldn’t have been able to demonstrate it himself.

Usually he would’ve enjoyed to roam the grounds and discover all the grand and little things which turn this place into something so special. He could’ve spent hours, _days_ , here without getting even bored once.

But right now he’s on a tight schedule, with an angel anxiously waiting for his return. He can’t afford to get sidetracked.

So he aims for the back entrance, more than ready to stir up some lives in the process. A small smile flickers over his lips, the thought of finally doing _something_ nearly exhilarating. 

However, just as his feet touch the patio the strangest thing happens: His muscles all at once suddenly refuse to work.

At first it’s his legs turning into stone, rendering them completely useless. Then it quickly takes over the rest of his body, every movement abruptly coming to a screeching halt, his limbs freezing right there on the spot. He doesn’t even manage to raise his eyebrows in surprise.

What. The -?

Panic floods his entire system in record time. Of course he noticed the magic glimmering at this place instantly when he arrived. After generations of Salinger witches living in this building, keeping it healthy and steady even during the worst times in history, this is seriously nothing to be astonished about.

Not even for a second.

But it felt _normal_. Powerful, yes, but also kind of human.

Manageable.

It seems he’d been wrong.

Just when he starts to wonder if he’s at least still able to grind his teeth a piercing noise sounds from somewhere close to the demon’s ear, shaking up his eardrums in a quite spectacular manner. Crowley is pretty sure he would have jumped out of his skin and probably transformed back into a snake out of pure shock if his body wouldn’t be utterly useless right now.

Shit, shit, shit.

Why is this his life again?

Thankfully - or maybe not? - he doesn’t have to wait too long for company. He’s just on the verge of asking himself whether a demon can actually turn deaf at some point when a shaggy haired man suddenly pops out around the corner, his hands pressed against his ears as he lets out some creative swear words.

His rant, however, comes a pause as he spots Crowley standing on his back porch.

The man stares at Crowley with wide eyes for a minute, not moving or even blinking, and only when the demon begins to wonder whether that bloke accidentally walked into the same trap as him he eventually kills the loud noise with a casual flick of his wrist. Suddenly they’re surrounded by deafening silence as they look at each other in various stages of disbelief.

“Oh my!” the man eventually exclaims. “Oh my, oh my!”

Crowley has every intention to answer and voice his displeasure in graphic detail, but even his vocal cords aren’t working properly. He merely gets a few incoherent sounds out which let him rather appear like a mouse in a trap than a pissed off demon.

“This is _so_ …” The man shakes his head, apparently absolutely gobsmacked by Crowley’s presence, before he turns back towards the house and calls out loud, “Beatrice, darling, you have to come outside _now_!”

It doesn’t take long for a blonde, middle-aged woman to appear right next to him, her expression pinched and obviously far from happy. “What is it, Henry?” she complains, her tone sharper than a knife. “What the hell was that horrible noise? You know I get cranky when I don’t get my afternoon tea on time -”

The man named Henry cuts her off by gently pushing her face in Crowley’s direction, putting the demon right into her line of sight.

She gasps in utter shock.

“Oh dear Lord!” she breathes. “Is that …?”

Henry nods. “Oh, darling, I think it is.”

All of a sudden a bright smile almost splits his face in half as his features turn so gleeful and giddy Crowley can’t help feeling uncomfortable very fast.

“Beatrice, my love,” he whispers, way too much excitement swinging in his voice, “it seems we managed to catch ourselves a demon. _Finally_.”

Oh crap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, I'm evil and cruel, dishonor on me, dishonor on my cow ...
> 
> ;D
> 
> Until next time then!!


	5. Instagram Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!!
> 
> Here we are, back again :D
> 
> I don't even want to ramble that much, I know I left you on a mean cliffhanger in the last chapter and you're probably eager to know what happens next to poor Crowley!
> 
> So, without further ado, have fun ^^
> 
> -

It’s not often you meet humans so bloody excited to find themselves in the company of a demon.

Granted, there are a few. Mostly self-proclaimed satanists who stumbled upon some legit summoning ritual purely by accident and raised a demon out of Hell just for the fun of it. They’re usually pretty damned happy and absurdly proud about their achievement. At least for about three till four whole seconds - until they suddenly realise that they just ripped a _DEMON_ out of whatever they were doing at that point (which most of the time was in the middle of a meal or while changing their sodding clothes) and have to face the consequences of a pissed off force of fury and hellfire.

It barely ends well.

Henry and Beatrice, however, apparently never heard those stories before as they keep on staring at Crowley with so much awe in their eyes it’s almost unbearable. They obviously don’t even entertain any kind of idea about being ripped apart into a million pieces and getting scattered across the ocean for just a single second.

Either they’re very brave or very stupid.

Probably both.

The line has always been fairly thin.

“He is _magnificent,_ ” Henry exclaims while stepping onto the patio, seemingly absolutely unaffected by the magic that is rendering Crowley motionless. “Don’t you agree, darling? Absolutely  _magnificent._ ”

“He truly is,” Beatrice coos, the smile on her lips growing into an alarming grin. “Just _look_ at him.”

She studies him like a masterpiece in a museum as Crowley does his best in the meantime to give her a threatening death glare in return. Unfortunately the fact that he can’t move even the tiniest muscle to increase the effect and also the sunglasses sitting on his nose hiding his eyes make the whole thing rather redundant. 

It still feels good to do at least _something,_ though.

“But he’s seriously not what I expected,” Beatrice continues, her gaze getting even more intense as she assesses the demon in front of her. “I anticipated warts and rotting flesh and tattered clothes. That’s the stories I always heard, at least.” She walks closer, her slippers dragging over the wood underneath her feet. “But he -- damn, he looks like a handsome model in skinny jeans. Not what I expected _at all._ ”

Crowley anticipates Henry to voice some words of protest at this, considering that human males usually don’t appreciate human females which are romantically involved with them (and, according to their matching rings, even lawfully wedded to them) praise the appearance of another male (or at least someone who looks male enough, in Crowley’s case). But Henry obviously doesn’t even know this famous tradition as he finds himself blatantly nodding in agreement to his wife’s statement.

“Handsome, indeed,” he says approvingly. “ _Very_ handsome.”

Crowley really doesn’t know what to do with that interaction.

And then he remembers he _can’t_ do anything anyway and almost feels glad about that. At least he doesn’t have to waste time now to decide whether to flee, punch them both in the face or send a pack of rats into their most likely squeaky clean kitchen to cause some riot.

“We’re going to be the talk of the country club, honey,” Beatrice declares with a bright grin, looking as excited as a toddler who just tried some chocolate for the very first time. “This is so much better than stupid Margret Masters and the troll she found in her shed the other day. A _troll._ ”

She scoffs and shakes her head in disgust.

“I’m not even sure it’s true, to be honest,” Henry pipes in. “She claims she saw a bloody coffee table running through her backyard last week, so I’m pretty certain her sanity isn’t at its best anyway. For all we know, that alleged troll was simply an oversized squirrel.”

Crowley, however, has to confess that some squirrels are actually far more terrifying than any trolls, so this Margret person clearly battled a monster, one way or another.

“This is just so _exciting,_ ” Beatrice coos. “The Smiths and Lombergs will go green with envy when they hear about this.”

“And don’t forget the Winfields.”

“The _Winfields_!” Beatrice actually starts to look a tad dazed, like she can’t believe her luck to be true. “God, they will hate us _so much._ Isn’t that wonderful?”

Sometimes Crowley really doesn’t get humans.

And _witches._

He will never understand witches.

Meanwhile, Beatrice pulls her phone out of nowhere (a skill that especially women all over the world seem to possess) and starts to angle the camera at Crowley’s frozen form, her fingers flying over the display as though they’ve never done anything else in all their lives.

“This will be a _marvelous_ instagram story,” she announces giddily. “That witch coven in New York City always tries to trump me with their outlandish stories, but not this time, _oh no_! They won’t even know what hit them.”

Great.

Not only witches but witches with a wi-fi connection and media obsession. 

This honestly doesn’t sound like a good combination. At all.

Crowley really hopes he will get out of here before they’re gonna be able to turn him into a blasted internet meme.

“I need to catch _everything,_ ” Beatrice emphasises. “It has to be a big show. His whole essence, the look on his face, our magic, his death …”

Oh, _double_ great.

Aziraphale would be exceptionally mad if Crowley manages to bloody die here today. And Crowley really hates having the angel cross with him.

It’s never a pretty affair.

Well -- that and the dying part, of course. Crowley isn’t exactly keen on that either.

“You want to _kill_ him?” Henry pipes in, staring at his wife with clear disbelief. “But … _really_ …?”

He gestures at Crowley’s everything, looking like the mere idea is absolutely ridiculous to him.

Good, old Henry.

Beatrice, however, doesn’t seem impressed by her husband’s (objectively speaking fairly convincing) argument. “Yes, _of course_ we need to kill him,” she urges. “What else do you wanna do? Put him in a collar and keep him as a pet?”

Yeah, how about no?

While Henry falls silent for a moment and pensively studies Crowley, as though he’s seriously busy imagining walking the demon on a blasted leash like a domesticated dog, Crowley manages to press out a barely noticeable noise out of his lungs which could be interpreted as a growl if you’re generous enough.

He feels the magic running through his veins, through every fibre of his corporeal being, and he thanks his lucky stars that he isn’t actually dependant on any kind of body function. His heartbeat shut down, the ability to breathe froze in time as well, and he would clearly lie dead on the ground by now if any of that would be essential to his existence in any way.

However, the access to his supernatural side is blocked as well. He still feels it, lying dormant as though it fell asleep very suddenly, but it seems pretty much useless, at least for the time being. He tries to nudge it, to scream at it in his mind, to curse it in every manner possible to finally startle it awake, however, it merely snores into his ear and doesn’t appear very impressed.

Bloody hell.

So here he is now, his body and magic of no avail, while two witches argue right in front of him whether they should kill him or not.

Is this _really_ how it’s supposed to end? Did he seriously survive the goddamned apocalypse only to accidentally stumble across a booby trap and see himself at the mercy of some crazy people with cameras and a taste for flashy shows?

Sure, he always said that if he had to go, he would go with style, but that’s honestly not what he meant by that!

“But do we really have to kill him?” Henry asks, sighing deeply like Crowley’s possible demise lies heavier on his soul than even the demon’s. “I mean … that’s just so impolite, don’t you think?”

The Brits and their politeness. 

Maybe, after all this time, this will not just be a pain in the arse but finally play right into Crowley’s hands for a change.

Beatrice, however, seems so baffled by that comment that Crowley begins to highly doubt she’s born English. “Henry, dear,” she urges, “I don’t really care if I’m a bad hostess for killing the demon in my backyard. I’m seriously not afraid to end up on Santa’s Naughty List.”

“But …” Henry flails wildly with his arms, obviously not sure what to do with all his limbs. “We can’t just kill him without at least talking to him first. Perhaps he only got lost. Or he fancied a little chat.” Henry does some absolutely confusing gestures with his hands, not making any sense at all. “He doesn’t deserve to die because of that, don’t you agree?”

Beatrice inhales loudly, like she can’t believe the Almighty is testing her like that. “Henry …”

“And what about Hell, huh?” Henry cuts in once more. “They won’t be thrilled if we’d kill one of their own just like that.”

Crowley snorts in his mind.

Hell would probably throw a ruddy party and award the Salingers with all the power and money imaginable for getting rid of Crowley for them. There honestly would be no tears, no mourning. 

Besides Aziraphale no one would give a damn anyway.

Oh dear …

Aziraphale …

Shit, Crowley really needs to get out of this. Soon.

“Oh please, Henry, don’t forget the truce your ancestors made with Hell,” Beatrice says. “They don’t bother us and we don’t bother them. And if anyone would dare to cross the line, they would have to deal with the consequences.” She points at Crowley. “And well, honey, I don’t know how you’re seeing it, but that fella seriously crossed a line here, right? Entering our private property without permission, trying to break in …”

Henry presses his lips into a thin line, starting to look somewhat defeated. “Okay, you have a point here …”

“Hell can’t do jackshit if we’ll kill this one,” Beatrice emphasises. “He could even be Lucifer himself and that truce would still be valid.”

She steps forward and meets Crowley’s eyes, in a clear challenge. She doesn’t even care that she’s only wearing a fluffy robe and slippers, looking the opposite of threatening from the outside. She still knows that she has the upper hand here.

“Demons don’t just pay the Salinger coven a visit because they have good intentions.” She scoffs at the mere notion and Crowley can’t even blame her for that. She isn’t wrong. “I’m not saying he’s here to kill us all or something. Maybe he simply wanted to steal one of our treasures or he got dared by some other demons to peek through our window for a second. Perhaps we wouldn’t even have known he’d been here in the first place. But that doesn’t change the fact that he stepped onto our property uninvited while we were all inside the house. With _our daughter_ here, as well.”

That last comment seems to shake up Henry at last. His body straightens and his eyes go dark for a moment as he probably imagines what could’ve gone wrong.

“We can’t afford to show mercy,” Beatrice says, looking straight at Crowley at these words. “It might tempt some other demons to try their luck as well. Perhaps next time when we’re fast asleep. Or at Rachel’s wedding, causing chaos in the process.”

The corners of Henry’s mouth droop. “God, Rachel would never forgive us for messing up her wedding.”

“Indeed.”

“So we kill him?”

He still sounds hesitant about it, like he’d rather do anything else, but unfortunately his wife’s arguments are getting through to him, no matter how little he likes it.

“Yes, we kill him.”

“ _Now_?”

Beatrice huffs and throws a quick side glance at her husband. “When did you intend to do it? Next week? On Christmas?”

“I’m just saying …”

“You know as well as I do that this enchantment that keeps him imprisoned right now won’t last forever,” Beatrice points out. “Your family fed their magic into these security measurements for generations now, every single year. It’s a compilation of centuries.”

Well, that certainly explains why it has such an impact on Crowley.

Some simple magic tricks would show minimal effect at the very best, but if the back patio (and probably the whole area around the house as well) has been fueled up regularly with powerful magic for such a very long time it might even render a demon of Crowley’s caliber shell-shocked. For the time being, at least.

“We don’t have time to waste, honey,” Beatrice urges. “For lowly demons it might take hours or even days for them to properly move again, but if he’s one of the Fallen Ones we’re talking about _minutes_ here.”

Crowley instantly perks up at that. _Minutes._

Well, he surely likes the sound of that.

If they manage to waste any more time and argue about little details, Crowley might actually have an opportunity to free himself. 

“So you wanna do this _now_?” Henry summarises again, appearing both sad as well as mildly excited about the prospect. “You wanna put up a whole bloody show to shame Magret Masters and her troll out of the country club in a couple of minutes?”

Beatrice’s answering grin is wide and fairly ominous. “I’m ambitious, honey!”

Henry shakes his head, obviously not sure what to make with this, but being so used to running along with his wife’s idea that he can’t do anything else anyway.

“Fine then,” he declares before turning back to the houses and yelling, “Clifford!”

Just a second later, as though he only waited around the corner to be summoned, a tall man in a perfectly pressed uniform shows up at the Salinger’s side. He looks like the epitome of a dutiful butler, always ready for his masters’ needs while the rest of the world ceases to exist. He barely offers Crowley a glance, like he couldn’t care less what’s going on as long as his employers are safe and happy.

“Clifford, my good boy, we need you to be very quick!” Henry says, raising his finger as though he’s making his point. “At first you need to get Rachel here. I’m sure she wouldn’t want to miss this.”

Crowley feels a spark of hope glimmer inside of him at those words. Aziraphale told her about him and though he doubts the angel showed her some pictures he seriously hopes the angel’s usually very vivid and colourful descriptions would make her at least hesitate when she’d be confronted with Crowley for the first time.

Maybe she would recognise him right on the spot, or perhaps she simply would at least get doubtful enough to distract her parents a couple more minutes, time for the spell to wear off and Crowley to make a hasty retreat.

Damn, he really hopes Aziraphale told her lots about him.

“And after you get Rachel,” Henry continues his long shopping list, “I need you to get the high-definition camera, a clear internet connection to everyone of importance, some biscuits and tea, and maybe some chocolate bars as well, because why not, right? It’s not like you kill a demon every day.”

Clifford nods solemnly and already started to spin on his heels to hasten back into the house when Henry quickly adds, “Oh, and don’t forget the bottle of Holy Water from the kitchen. We can’t miss that one, of course.”

Crowley chokes on nothing and manages to widen his eyes at least a tiny bit as he watches the butler rush into the building.

OH. FUCKING. SHIT.

 

\-----

 

Aziraphale has been feeling fairly restless since Crowley stepped out of the bookshop.

He knows it’s stupid and completely unnecessary, Crowley is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He’s an absolute expert in extricating himself from all kinds of unpretty situations, even if they seemed dire and hopeless, and he would probably roll his eyes at Aziraphale’s completely misplaced concern.

 _“You worry too much, angel,”_ he hears Crowley’s voice in his mind, annoyance apparent in his tone, but also a hint of fondness underlining his voice.

And naturally Crowley is right about this. As so very often.

Aziraphale just hates feeling helpless. He is used to take matters into his own hands, solve sprouting conflicts before they can grow into full-blown problems, have everything under control.

Granted, with Heaven’s influence that wasn’t always the case -- most of the time a lot of things slipped right through his fingers and he was doomed to stand on the sidelines and merely watch as events unfolded themselves --, but he still tried to manage as best as he could.

But now?

He can’t even go outside and interact with anyone, in any way. It feels like the freedom he earned after six thousand years of Heaven’s orders raining down on him has been ripped violently from him all over again. It’s right, Aziraphale surely loves his bookshop and it isn’t a fairly rare occurrence for him to coop himself inside for days or even longer and not see another soul in all that time, but that has always been his very own choice. An act of free will.

Now he feels like a prisoner.

Aziraphale growls as he eventually turns back to his research. It’s not like he has anything better to do right now and maybe, by some miracle, he would actually find something worthwhile. It’s at least a more preferable pastime than brooding around and feeling sorry for himself.

After all, this entire situation is an utter mess and it needs to come to an end very fast. Aziraphale wants freedom as much for himself as for those poor people affected by the enchantment. It’s been hard enough to “remind” them of their individual engagements and see them scatter all over London again, but Aziraphale just knows it won’t hold for very long and soon enough their personal worlds will only consist of the angel once more. Aziraphale feels gutted thinking about these poor men and women trapped by this spell in an even worse way than himself.

Yes, this needs to end _now._

And as long as he doesn’t have confirmation whether Crowley’s little trip might be successful or not, a little research is better than nothing.

However, he is just a few minutes in, reading a very disturbing passage containing bodily fluids he actually never wanted to even think about, when he suddenly feels something tugging at his heartstrings.

Aziraphale blinks in confusion and lets his gaze wander over his surroundings, wondering if possibly something close by caused this weird reaction. For a horrible second he considers several of his suitors had found their ways back to him, ready to assault him with flowers and poetry once again, but after a brief check he realises that the area outside seems so far free of any of his lovesick admirers.

So what --?

Aziraphale attempts to concentrate, even if it isn’t all that easy to begin with, and lets his senses expand, curious and anxious at the same time.

And then there it is again.

Something is off.

Aziraphale wrinkles his forehead and increases his focus, forcing himself to tune everything else out but that odd sensation reaching toward him like a call.

It takes a moment for the angel to eventually recognise it.

_Crowley._

Aziraphale gasps in surprise. He’s always been slightly aware of the demon’s presence -- after all these millennia it’s almost a simple task --, but this is something new entirely. He can _feel_ him, even miles away.

It must be the spell, Aziraphale is sure of that. It’s not totally one-sided, as he noticed fairly on. He’s sensing a mild connection to anyone who came into contact with it, like a bond keeping them all together somehow. And though the spell doesn’t have the same effect on Crowley as he does on all the others, the demon surely has been exposed to it to a certain extent. Like catching the virus, but not getting sick himself.

It’s obviously enough to form this strange connection between angel and demon.

Aziraphale isn’t really sure what to make of it and whether he should feel uncomfortable about it or not, but just as he’s about to mull over how he should best explain it to Crowley in a soothing manner a new surge of emotions suddenly reaches him from far away.

It’s panic.

Terror.

Gripping and cold and so very consuming.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale breathes, in shock and fear himself as those feelings hit him right in the face like they were his own. His body freezes up and for a second the entire world seems to stop, only leaving that sensation of darkness for him to fixate on.

Oh dear Lord, what has he done?

It felt so wrong letting Crowley set out all by himself, but Aziraphale told himself it would be fine. After surviving the almost apocalypse, what could a bunch of witches do to them?

Aziraphale feels sick, so very sick, as he leaps to his feet and throws all caution over board. He knows he shouldn’t go outside, shouldn’t expose more innocent people to this terrible enchantment, but Crowley’s safety, his continued existence, is more important to Aziraphale than anything else in this universe.

The whole world could fall in love with him, forcing him to live the rest of his immortal life deep inside a dark cave system without any sort of entertainment and indulgences, and it still would be far better than sitting around and doing nothing.

 _Crowley_ …

He rushes toward the entrance, already prepping his wings, although he hadn’t used them for flying in quite a while, and prepares himself for everything that might come his way as good as possible, under the circumstances. Anxiety and worry, though, are strong forces, so he tells himself not to dwell on it too much and shoves it at the back of his mind.

Crowley is the only important thing right now.

Like so many times before, even if Aziraphale never really allowed himself to admit that.

However, just when he’s about to grasp the handle and tear the door open, suddenly a loud crash from the backroom halts him in his motions. He hears glass shatter and a voice grumbling something incoherent as the unmistakable sound of wings reaches Aziraphale’s ears, and for a moment he entertains the wonderful possibility that Crowley managed to free himself from whatever situation he got himself into and ran straight back to the bookshop.

Relief rushes through Aziraphale’s system and he catches himself sending a grateful prayer to God.

But then the person from the backroom comes into his view and his heart drops as he sets sight on a pair of very white, slightly fluorescent wings momentarily blinding him. Blue eyes, deep and majestic and so very angelic, settle on him and light up like a tree on Christmas.

Eyes that do not belong to Crowley.

“Aziraphale, my love!” a loud voice booms throughout the entire room, making the walls actually shake in the process. “Are you alright, my sweet darling? I picked up on your sudden distress and couldn’t keep myself away from you any longer.”

Aziraphale, in the meantime, never felt such disappointment before. For a moment he even has the strong urge to cry.

 _Why_ , dear Lord? 

 _WHY_?

“Imael …”

How _the hell_ is this his life right now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, my cow and I still feel very ashamed of ourselves ...
> 
> But on the plus side, there is some protective!Aziraphale coming your way pretty soon, so I hope that counts at least for something ;D
> 
> Until next time!


	6. Dire

“ _My love,_ what happened to you?”

Imael’s voice is absolutely distraught, as though the idea of Aziraphale suffering even a mild inconvenience is way too much for him to comprehend, and just a moment later he crowds right into Aziraphale’s personal space. His big and concerned eyes roam over the other angel’s physical form as he desperately searches for any kind of injury, while his large wings flap around wildly, without any order or care, knocking over some book stacks along the way.

“Are you hurt?” Imael asks, his tone so shaky Aziraphale already fears a new stream of over-emotional tears coming his way very soon. “Are you in pain? Dizzy? Do you need to lie down? I could make you a cup of tea, if you like. That’s what you enjoy drinking, right? At least I heard it has a fairly calming effect --”

He rambles on, obviously close to talking himself into a frenzy, his concern about Aziraphale’s well-being apparently so powerful he’s barely able to contain himself.

And his worry would honestly be kind of sweet and appreciated if it a) would actually be genuine, and b) Aziraphale wouldn’t have much more important things to think about right now anyway.

“I’m _fine,_ ” he assures the young angel, with an unusual edge in his tone. He _seriously_ doesn’t have time for this. “You don’t have to concern yourself --”

“But you are the _only one_ on my mind, every second of every day,” Imael insists, his gaze piercing itself right into Aziraphale’s soul. “Of course _everything_ about you concerns me, even the little things. I can’t live without you.”

Aziraphale groans. Whoever put this spell upon him will have some serious explaining to do.

Why does this have to happen to him? Imael embodies everything he left behind -- perfect in any way, bright and shiny, his corporeal form obviously treated as a temple, a proper angel through and through, just like Gabriel and all the others like to breed them -- and Aziraphale doesn’t have barely any strength to deal with this.

Especially now.

“I don’t have time for this,” Aziraphale hisses, his hand still lying on the door handle. He feels the connection with Crowley more vividly than before, the panic gripping his very being, and Aziraphale can’t afford to waste even a single moment. “Don’t you have some oceans to roam for a flower? Go back to that.”

Imael’s eyes get dazed, as if Aziraphale addressing him directly and breathing in his mere direction is the most amazing thing that ever happened to him.

“I tried, my love, oh how much I tried,” Imael promises, with way too much sorrow in his voice. “But I couldn’t find anything even remotely similar to what you desire and the human fishermen weren’t any help either. I think they believed I made the whole story up.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I was just on my way to Heaven and ask for more advice when your distress call reached me.”

Despite everything Aziraphale feels himself tensing up at those words instantly. “Heaven?”

Oh no.

No, no, no.

Anything but Heaven.

“You can’t go to Heaven,” he commands while straightening his back in an attempt to look not as overwhelmed as he actually feels right now. “You … you just can’t.”

Imael stares back at him as if the entire concept is absolutely foreign to him. And in a way that’s completely understandable, of course, since as a dutiful angel like him you consider Heaven your home, your safe haven, and not something you should avoid at all costs. Imael probably knows next to nothing beside the celestial world, most likely hasn’t even been to Earth all that often before, and the idea of seeing Heaven as anything but perfection must be rather alienating for him.

Aziraphale remembers feeling that way, a long time ago.

A _very_ long time ago.

“You can’t go back to Heaven,” Aziraphale repeats, a little more determination in his voice now. “It’s not … I can’t …”

He simply can’t risk other angels to focus their attention back to him, not after it took so much to get them off their backs. They might jump to the absolute wrong conclusions way too fast, probably thinking that Aziraphale is manipulating Imael on purpose instead of them both actually just being victims of an enchantment, and would Aziraphale grant no real chance to defend himself. After all, according to Crowley he didn’t even receive a trial as they basically pushed him into Hellfire, eager to see him burn and die.

They wouldn’t be fairly lenient about this either.

Not the mention the possibility that even more angels would fall under the spell before Aziraphale could do anything to prevent it. Perhaps even _archangels_ themselves. The picture of Gabriel looking at him with the same moon eyes as Imael and proposing marriage and eternal love to him is way too much to handle.

He’d rather flee to the depths of the ocean and never return than to ever see that happen.

So yes, he seriously doesn’t need to be back on Heaven’s radar again. And, more importantly, he honestly can’t stand even the slightest chance of Crowley finding himself faced with unwanted attention either.

There’s no way Aziraphale will tolerate such an outcome.

“You can’t go to Heaven,” he says once more, now with all the emphasis he is capable of. “Because … because I need you here.”

Imael’s expression brightens so strongly at these words it almost hurts to look at him. “Really?”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Yes,” he concedes. “I hate to do this to you since I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t agree to this if you were in your right mind, but this is for a good cause and I can’t risk losing you to Heaven.”

Imael appears absolutely delighted to hear that last part while the spell most likely lets him conveniently overhear the rest of the sentence.

“I need you to help me save my friend,” Aziraphale explains.

He reaches out for Crowley again, feels the pull of panic still there, still prominent and so very frightening, and his heart is about to jump out of his chest as desperation grasps at him. 

“Your friend?” Imael, meanwhile, asks dumbfounded. There is an odd expression flickering over his features as he tilts his head to one side and studies Aziraphale way more intently than this little revelation actually deserves.

“Yes.” Aziraphale says nonetheless, nodding fiercely. “I think Crowley is in serious trouble, I can feel it --”

“ _Crowley_?” Imael cuts in, his gaze getting even more intense while he leans in. “The Serpent of Eden?”

Aziraphale hates the barely disguised disgust in the other one’s tone.

“ _Yes,_ ” Aziraphale urges, not having any time to deal with Heaven’s general distrust of Hell. “Yes, he is the Serpent, yes, he is a demon, and _yes,_ he is my friend --”

“There are rumours,” Imael interrupts once more. “Rumours up in Heaven, about you and him. And your ‘unique relationship’.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I’m sure there are --”

“They’re of … lewd nature,” Imael clarifies, a clear edge in his tone now. “Fairly … lascivious.”

Oh dear.

Well, Aziraphale shouldn’t exactly be surprised, concerning the way they basically showed off their loyalty to each other during the apocalypse in a very prominent manner.

And yet, Aziraphale feels his cheeks heat at the implications.

“It’s not … we’re not …” he stammers. “They’re just rumours, Imael, nothing to concern yourself with. I mean, Crowley and I … we’re not _like that._ ”

Even though it hurts to say this out loud, as he learns that very second when his insides start to clench painfully at those words.

Imael, however, doesn’t appear convinced. “I don’t think --”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for this!” Aziraphale interjects impatiently, the desire to be with Crowley almost suffocating him. “Crowley is my friend, my best friend, and he’s in trouble right now … and if I’d lose him I would be devastated.”

It’s actually an understatement.

He would be crushed into a million pieces, without any prospect of ever getting whole again. Even the mere idea is absolutely terrifying.

“My love --”

“Without Crowley I could _never_ be happy again,” Aziraphale emphasises as emotions threaten to overwhelm him. “Do you want that for me? Is that what you desire?”

It’s a low blow, aiming at Imael’s (fake) emotions, and he feels awful about it for a millisecond, but then he registers a new wave of panic coming from Crowley and every hint of guilt vanishes on the spot.

“Of course I want you to be happy,” Imael reassures with wide eyes, Aziraphale’s accusation apparently shaking him to his core. “I never meant … I’m just saying that _I_ could make you very happy, too --”

“I don’t doubt that,” Aziraphale lies right into his face, “but there is more to life than romantic love, Imael. Crowley is my oldest and dearest friend and I can’t … I just can’t …”

His voice breaks. Nothing matters anymore -- Imael leaning way too close into his personal bubble, someone right outside his door yelling at a car driver to slow down, his telephone in the backroom starting to ring, the spider in the corner staring at the scene in front of it as though it cannot wait for what is about to happen --, the only important thing right now is Crowley.

Anybody and anything else can go to Hell, for all he cares.

“I want you to be happy,” Imael states, his dazed eyes getting at least a little bit of focus, as if he’s somehow fighting against the enchantment with his decision. “And if that demon makes you happy, I shall do everything to ensure his safety.”

He still sounds a tad unsure and even Aziraphale isn’t exactly certain whether this is the spell talking or Imael’s true nature shining true after all, but for the time being this is secondary anyway.

“Then let’s go.”

 

 

\-----

 

The Holy Water arrives on a fucking silver platter, next to some tea and a bowl of biscuits.

_Seriously_?

Crowley doesn’t even know what to say to this. Is this a blatant and cruel joke? Or just carelessness without any regards for his feelings? Or do they, for some unfathomable reason, actually believe this to be proper etiquette? _‘Oh, let’s have some afternoon tea while we destroy that demon completely, honey.’_

Witches!

Why did the Almighty ever thought it was a good idea to create them?

Crowley stares at the bottle with Holy Water in Clifford’s strong hands and senses deep panic grasping at his very essence. Someone filled it into a masterfully crafted vessel, turning it into something beautiful and amazing to look at. It’s pure art and Crowley hates how wonderful it looks. The whole thing mocks him right into the face.

So this is honestly how he’s supposed to die?

After over six thousand years?

“This is magnificent, Clifford,” Henry coos as he grabs one of the biscuits and eats it with a blissed expression. As though this is just a regular Wednesday afternoon, enjoying the sun and basking in the misery of a demon. “As always, you have outdone yourself. You really need to tell me your secret recipes someday …”

While Clifford looks at his master like he’d rather rip out his own vocal cords than even breathe a hint of his recipe in anyone’s direction and Beatrice seems fairly occupied adjusting the settings on her phone to get the best angle for Crowley’s impending death, another person appears on the back porch all of a sudden, carrying some expensive looking camera equipment.

“Oh, Rachel,” Henry bellows, his smile getting even wider as he rushes to his daughter’s side. “Please don’t be afraid, we have everything under control.”

Rachel -- who looks, almost uncannily, like a younger version of her mother -- hesitates anyway, staring at Crowley being frozen in their backyard with wide eyes, and for a very long moment she obviously doesn’t even know what to say or think while she completely ignores her father’s ongoing reassurances.

And eventually she exclaims, “Fuck!”

Crowley couldn’t have phrased it any better, to be honest.

“That is … fuck, that’s _really_ a demon!” She shakes her head in absolute disbelief. “I thought Clifford was joking.”

Henry can’t help a scoff at that. “Clifford doesn’t have a single joking bone in his body.”

Rachel blinks, still appearing highly overwhelmed. “Fair point.”

She dumps the countless stuff in her arms on a small table nearby, almost carelessly, before stepping closer to Crowley. She is cautious, tentative, but apparently she trusts both the powerful enchantment binding the demon on his place as well as her parents’ confidence that everything is under control more than enough to not shy away from him. Her gaze roams over Crowley’s body, drinking everything in, her eyes flickering back and forth as if she can’t decide where to look at first.

There is awe on her face. Wonder. Fear. Respect.

But no recognition.

Not even a single bit.

Crowley sends a silent curse into the sky. Though Aziraphale claimed to have told her about his demonic friend he obviously didn’t waste much time to describe Crowley’s appearance in any way. Granted, it’s like the least important thing for both angels and demons, to be perfectly honest, but Crowley had really hoped that Aziraphale mentioned at least _something_ memorable to her.

But there is nothing on Rachel’s features that would indicate that.

Damnit.

He really counted on her stopping this whole madness before it had even really begun.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Henry sidles up next to his daughter, his appreciative gaze wandering once again over Crowley. “I still can’t believe this is actually happening.”

Rachel nods in agreement, her eyes not leaving Crowley for even a millisecond. “What does he want?”

“We don’t know,” Henry answers. “The enchantment ties him up so effectively he’s rendered completely motionless, for the time being.”

Time is running out, though.

Crowley checks again, tries to get some feeling back into his limbs, but for now it still seems frozen like ice. Not even blinking appears to be on the cards.

_Great._

“When will the spell wear off?” Rachel wonders, her look so intense it pierces right through Crowley’s skin and gouges itself into his bones, entirely mercilessly.

“In a few minutes,” Henry explains. “That’s why we have to hurry.”

Rachel appears confused about that statement for a moment, but then her glance falls on the bottle of Holy Water, still dutifully held by Clifford, and she gasps in surprise.

“You wanna _kill_ him?”

The absolute shock in her voice sounds like music to Crowley’s ears.

“You can’t just kill him!” she argues, now anger dominating her features as she glares at both her parents. “You don’t even know why he’s here. Maybe he’s come in peace.”

Beatrice laughs at the mere idea. “Oh please, you can’t be serious.”

And Crowley would like to fight her on this, but unfortunately she has a point. Demons usually tend to never come in peace, to anything. May it be birthday parties or executions and just a simple business meeting. They’re always up to something, one way or another.

And right now that reputation bites Crowley deeply in the arse.

“But -- you can’t just kill him for being a demon!” Rachel states, her voice getting shrill now as she gestures wildly with her arms. “It’s discriminating. And highly racist.”

While Beatrice seems truly unimpressed by that accusation Henry finds himself wincing. “I don’t think that term would apply to this situation …”

“Why not?” Rachel cuts in, scowling darkly at her father. “It seems appropriate to me.”

“Rachel, sweetheart …”

“And what about the timing, huh?” Rachel adds, folding her arms across her chest. “Don’t you think it at least a little suspicious?”

Both her parents pause at that statement and blink at their daughter in bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

Rachel rolls her eyes, apparently fessed up that her train of thoughts isn’t that obvious. “Only weeks after we met a true-to-life … well, _you-know-what_ … only weeks afterwards a _demon_ shows up the first time in centuries! And you don’t think that odd?”

Aziraphale.

She is talking about Aziraphale.

Still avoiding his name or even his species, to protect him from any imaginable retributions, but it’s more than apparent as soon as you know the whole story.

And of course she has a point here. Meeting an angel for the first time and not long afterwards a demon popping up out of nowhere -- it seriously should raise some red flags. It would be crazy to label this as a coincidence and dismiss the connection between those two events.

Beatrice and Henry seem to catch up on that as well as their eyes widen in unison at their daughter’s reminder.

“Oh my, you’re right,” Henry whispers. “I totally … I didn’t think … Why didn’t we think of this, honey?”

Beatrice grimaces. “I guess we got too excited?”

Rachel gapes at her parents with the level of frustration only a child is able to muster in the face of their maker’s incompetence.

“How are you two still alive?” she groans.

While both Beatrice and Henry pull a face at that, Clifford leans closer to Rachel and announces, “From time to time I find wondering myself.”

Dear Lord.

Crowley blinks rapidly and asks himself what the hell he did to deserve this.

Okay, granted, he did _a lot_ of things in his life, some probably worthy a horrible death, but has he ever done anything so fucking bad it would be considered fair to throw him into a situation like this?

Like seriously, not even that one time he stole everyone’s right shoe, back in the early years of London, seems to justify him having to live through this literal hell. Why can’t he just have a little peace and quiet for a change and simply …?

Wait … 

WAIT …

Did he just … _blink_?

Oh dear.

Oh fuck.

“I’m gonna call him now,” Rachel says, her voice piercing through Crowley’s shock like a sharp knife. “We should do nothing without his say-so. I don’t wanna risk an interdimensional war or something.”

While she presses her mobile phone to her ear and waits for the person on the other line to pick up, Crowley needs a long moment to realise she’s calling Aziraphale right now. Hoping to get advice on the unplanned visitor on their porch.

Aziraphale who Crowley ordered to stay away from any kind of contact and who most likely won’t pick up in his phone for the slight chance that love spell might affect people even by the sound of his voice.

Aziraphale who has no idea that his friend is trapped in such a dire situation.

_Aziraphale_ … 

The thought of his angel -- the warmth, the smiles, the fondness in his tone -- grips Crowley at his very core and knocks him back into action. He can’t die here today, he _won’t_ die here, and that’s just an imperturbable fact.

Crowley has still so much to live for, so many things he never tried, out of lack of opportunity, out of fear, and he won’t allow it to slip through his fingers as he melts into a puddle of goo in the garden of some insane witches.

No bloody chance!

Crowley blinks once more, twice, three times, and hope surges through his whole system when he manages to tug the corner of his mouth into the hint of a smile.

Halle-Bloody-Lujah.  

It seems he’s about to be back in business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *uses dramatic narrator voice-over*
> 
> Will Crowley manage to free himself from the enchantment just on time?  
> Or will Aziraphale and Imael arrive before it’s too late?  
> Is Rachel ever going to realise who Crowley really is?
> 
>  
> 
> See your questions answered in the next episode of “Two dumbasses too stupid to realise they’re in love with each other”!
> 
> ;D


	7. Holy Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes a deep breath*
> 
> Damn, I'm back again!!
> 
> The last few weeks seriously didn't want to end, with lots of my coworkers being on holidays and my sorry ass having to work double and triple during that time >.< But thankfully they're all back now, this week I've almost got no work at all as compensation for my overtime, and next week my own vacation starts -- so lots of time to write :DD
> 
> I can't wait to spend more time with those ineffable dumbasses again!
> 
> So I hope you have as much fun with this chapter as I did ^^
> 
> -

“Damn, I can’t reach him.”

Rachel glares angrily at her phone, as though it’s responsible for her not getting through to Aziraphale, and eventually shoves it back into her pocket. She tried two more times after her first attempt, squirming impatiently while waiting for the bloody angel to finally answer his antique telephone, but like before to no avail.

Aziraphale might suck at following orders and usually bends the rules to his own advantage, however, the mere chance that someone might fall under the love spell only by listening to his voice had obviously been more than enough to ignore the ringing device entirely.

Probably not much of a hardship, though. The only people calling his phone in the first place are humans having the audacity to want to buy something from him and Crowley himself.

“Well, we can’t wait around for much longer,” Beatrice announces, sounding far too happy about her daughter’s lack of success. “Otherwise we’re gonna end up dead.”

Rachel sighs. “Mom …”

“Stop being so difficult, honey.”

“And you should stop being so flippant about this,” Rachel growls, shooting daggers at her mother. “This isn’t right.”

“It’s just one measly demon,” Beatrice objects, waving dismissively at Crowley like he’s just an annoying bug which dared to interrupt her precious tea time. “I’m sure your angel will have no issues with us killing him. Why would he?”

Of course from her point of view this makes all perfect sense. Angels and demons, hereditary enemies, light and darkness, good and evil. Naturally an angel wouldn’t mind a demon’s death and vice versa.

It’s only logical.

And usually Crowley would’ve actually agreed with her. No other angel in Heaven would even shed a single tear if he would’ve ended up dead here and now. On the contrary, most of them probably would celebrate the biggest party in the history of time itself.

Only Aziraphale would be the exception.

Because that beautiful and cocky bastard of an angel has _always_ been the exception.

But how the hell should Beatrice and her entourage know about this?

“This is _madness,_ Mom --”

“No!” Beatrice cuts in sharply as she raises her hand pointedly right into Rachel’s face, effectively shutting her up in the process. “The only madness around here is you actually believing that we wouldn’t do anything to protect our only child. This demon’s presence is threatening all our lives -- _your_ life -- and I won’t stand for that!” She steps closer to her daughter, her expression so stern that even Lucifer could learn a thing or two from her. “You might not understand because you’re not a mother yet, but I won’t stand here wasting precious time debating whether this is the morally right thing to do or not while this thing is plotting to murder us all.”

Crowley grinds his teeth -- as subtly as possible -- as he has to admit that planning a good old-fashioned murder right now sounds like a wonderful idea. He’s never really been up for much killing and all that stuff, contrary to his kin down in Hell, but in these particular circumstances he actually wouldn’t mind. Might even be fun.

And it certainly would turn into an entertaining instagram story.

Even better than Margret Masters and her stupid troll.

“So stop standing in my way, Rachel!” Beatrice orders, her voice allowing not even the hint of disobedience. “My house, my rules, so just deal with it!”

She snaps her fingers in a dramatic fashion and the men in the background suddenly spur into action, apparently not all that eager to let her wait any longer.

While Henry grabs the bottle of Holy Water and presses it close to his chest like an irreplaceable treasure, Clifford puts the tray with the tea and biscuits to the side and hastily assembles the camera equipment instead. He works so quickly, his fingers practically flying over the different devices and merging them into something functional, it’s more than obvious it’s not the first time he’s doing it. The Salingers probably like to document a lot of aspects of their lives -- for social media as well as private use -- and Crowley promptly decides that he doesn’t want to think to closely about it, for his own sanity’s sake.

Not to mention that he’s got more important things to worry about.

While Beatrice drags Rachel out of Crowley’s vicinity, totally ignoring her daughter’s ongoing protests, Henry takes their place, looking all relaxed and at ease with the world while he casually removes the lid on the Holy Water and twirls the liquid inside the vessel as if he’s about to test some new wine.

Crowley can’t help feeling mesmerised by the movement.

It looks so harmless, just like simple water he basically encounters every single day, and he just hates how something most people don’t even give a crap about is capable of destroying him completely. Wiping him from the face of the earth, like he’s nothing. Merely a little footnote in history, if he’s lucky.

The Water sparkles beautifully in the annoyingly bright sunlight, as though it’s laughing at him. Taunting him.

Crowley’s heart leaps back into action and beats so hard in his ribcage for a moment he’s afraid it would jump out of his chest, leaving an ugly mess behind.

Is that a thing that happens to corporeal bodies?

Crowley’s actually never seen anything like it before, but he certainly wouldn’t rule it out. At least his heart seems fairly keen to show him such an outcome in great detail sometime very soon.

“You can’t do this!” Rachel’s voice reaches his ears again. She is not in Crowley’s direct periphery anymore, but the emotions in her tone aren’t hard to miss anyway. “Please, just let me try calling the angel one more time --”

Aziraphale …

Crowley feels his skin prickle at the mention of that name. He sees the angel’s beaming smile right in front of his inner eye, hears his laugh, feels his touch ...

Yeah, he just can’t leave Aziraphale behind, to fend on his own … 

That idiot wouldn’t manage to survive without Crowley’s help for very long.

And so Crowley focuses. Focuses on the Holy Water and Henry and his deep-seated desire to see Aziraphale once more, to be with him, to _not_ lose him … 

Not again.

And so his magic takes over. It’s not much, most of it is still very much asleep or at least way too drowsy to be any kind of useful, but the tiny bit that’s not actually incompetent right now seems more than happy to hurl itself right at Henry’s body with all the force it’s capable of.

Henry yelps in surprise as he’s suddenly ripped off the ground and shoved backwards hard, his slippers as well as the bottle in his hands going flying in different directions as he’s catapulted through the air like a weightless puppet. He twirls and twists and for a single millisecond he’s even upside down -- his robe and loose clothes revealing some things Crowley actually would have preferred to let stay hidden until the dawn of time itself -- before he finally crashes loudly against a concrete wall right beside Clifford. Who dutifully continues recording the whole thing without turning a hair.

From one moment to the other there is a lot of screaming and yelling and cursing and while both wife and daughter rush to Henry’s side to check whether he’s okay, Crowley instantly shifts his gaze to the Holy Water only. He’s still unable to fully turn his head and for a second or two it feels like his eyeball are about to pop out of their sockets in his attempt to catch at least a glimpse, but in the end he finds an angle that does its job.

And it takes him no time at all to spot the blasted Holy Water, even amongst all the unnecessary clutter on the Salinger’s patio.

There it is, looking innocently back at him. It landed right inside a flower pot at the other end of the veranda, some of its content now slowly sloshing into the soil and feeding the clueless plants. It’s still too close for Crowley’s liking -- way too close, to be honest --, however, at least it’s currently not in the arms of some crazy witch and that’s a beginning.

When he’ll be back to full strength in hopefully no time at all he’s gonna send the whole thing to bloody Madagascar. 

Followed by the entire Salinger clan.

Who, at this very moment, stares right back at him.

Henry rather confused than anything else, Rachel obviously so overwhelmed by her emotions she has no idea how to feel, and Beatrice … well, she seems keen to commit homicide.

Beatrice glares darkly at him, her lips pressed together so hard they seem to be disappearing, as her body starts to tremble due to a seemingly strong portion of pent-up anger. It appears that fine lady is fairly mad at Crowley for having the absolute audacity to protect his own life.

How dare he, right?

Crowley expects a litany of swears and accusations coming his way any second now and he actually looks forward to her wasting more time screaming at him while the immobility spells wears off bit by bit. Humans are so stupidly emotional sometimes.

However, unfortunately Beatrice seems to remember the situation at hand at the very last moment. She’s just opening her mouth, apparently more than ready to curse Crowley to his very bones, but then she blinks, once, twice, memory and survival instinct obviously kicking in.

So instead of yelling her head off and granting Crowley some much needed time, she rushes into the direction of the Holy Water, her expression pure determination.

Fuck.

Crowley hisses as he follows her movements, desperately grasping for any leftover magic inside of him. He feels like he’s fumbling, flailing. Trapped inside gradually drying cement, too sluggish and slow to react properly.

He manages to move his body for a little bit -- at least enough that his sunglasses slide forward somewhat due to the motion and his scarf almost slips off his shoulders --, but he knows right away that it won’t save him his life.

Not yet.

So he does the only thing he can think of in that split second: Use his voice.

It’s not much, barely a whisper, and it feels like a strenuous effort to even get his vocal chords to cooperate, however, it’s better than nothing.

And after all, talking got them out of the apocalypse not so long ago. 

Talking and love and all that stuff. 

So Crowley pulls all his strength together and presses out the one word that matters more than anything.

“Aziraphale …”

Because what else is there left to say, right?

And it works. 

Just like a miracle.

Beatrice actually freezes, as though she suddenly did fall victim to the enchantment on the patio after all, and stares at Crowley with wide eyes. An incoherent noise is coming out of her mouth the demon has no idea how to interpret as she simultaneously struggles to remember how her brain even works.

Henry and Rachel obviously share the sentiment. They’re both gaping at Crowley, as if they’re truly seeing him for the very first time, and apparently have no idea what to do with the situation at hand.

(Only good ol’ Clifford appears absolutely unfazed by this, zeroing his camera at the demon with a thoroughly bored expression as he probably wishes to be anywhere else and goes through his shopping list for dinner in his mind to at least pass the time efficiently.)

“So you _are_ here because of Aziraphale?” Rachel urges a moment later, a clear edge to her voice now. From the kneeling position next to her father she stands up slowly, her motions deliberate, while she doesn’t avert her gaze even for a brief second. “What do you want with him?”

There is something highly protective about her now as her eyes are roaming over Crowley’s frame, assessing him carefully from top to bottom. All of a sudden she seems ready to fight, ready to bite some heads off if necessary. Willing to throw herself into the fires of Hell only to spare Aziraphale some mild inconvenience. Like she’d rather march into battle and risk to lose than see the angel anywhere near danger.

Crowley surely knows what that feels like.

“Are you here to harm him?” Rachel growls, stepping closer once more. She doesn’t appear intimidated about what happened to her father literally less than a minute ago, approaching Crowley like a predator prepared to rip some throats open. “You think you can hurt him?”

Well, Aziraphale clearly left an impression on this girl.

Though Crowley can hardly blame her, to be honest. Since the moment Aziraphale confessed to giving his flaming sword to the humans, back over six thousand years ago, the demon had been nothing but impressed by that stupid and annoying angel. He just couldn’t help himself, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise.

And if he isn’t strong enough to resist Aziraphale’s unique charms, how should a mere human like Rachel?

“You won’t hurt Aziraphale, not under my watch!” she hisses. “Don’t even think for _a second_ that I’d allow --”

Suddenly she stops in her tracks.

Stares at him.

Blinks.

Once. 

Twice.

And then she steps into his private space, so close that Crowley feels her breath tickling on his skin.

He registers both her parents protest passionately, Beatrice obviously torn between grabbing the bottle of Holy Water only a few inches away or leaping her body protectively in front of her daughter, caution be damned, but Crowley is way too mesmerised by the abrupt change on Rachel’s features to give it much attention.

The hard lines, the pugnacity, the sparkle in her eyes -- it all vanishes in an instant.

Like it was never there to begin with.

And it’s replaced by something Crowley had been hoping to see there the whole time: recognition.

She’s beginning to catch up with whom she’s dealing with.

“Your eyes …” she whispers, absolutely awestruck. She even reaches out, as though she wants to touch his face, but thankfully berates herself in the last minute and blushes instead. “A snake … the eyes of a snake …”

Crowley takes a moment to realise that she’s able to see his eyes unrestricted now for the first time, after his sunglasses slipped down his nose earlier. She has full access to all their glory -- a privilege only a few humans could claim as their own over the course of the last millennia -- and finds herself captivated by them.

“Rachel, what are you doing?” Beatrice’s indignant voice sounds through the whole backyard, startling a swarm of birds as well as any other wildlife in the near vicinity apparently half to death.

Rachel, meanwhile, doesn’t even flinch, her gaze focused on Crowley alone. “His eyes …” she breathes, once again. “Aziraphale told me …” She bites her bottom lip. “He told us all about his best friend, remember? The one with the most beautiful snake eyes?”

Now it’s Crowley turn to stare.

Is that _really_ how Aziraphale phrased it?

Crowley feels his skin prickle at the mere possibility that this indeed might be a direct quote. After all, the angel _does_ tend to get carried away more often than not with his tales and descriptions, so perhaps it honestly slipped out at one point.

Crowley’s heart does some funny dance at that thought.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rachel!” Beatrice bellows, jerking Crowley violently out of his daydreams. “He's _a demon_! Angels don’t consort with such creatures.”

Once again, she does have a point here.

But Aziraphale has always been the weird one among that bunch of dickhead angels. Crowley is still, to this very day, surprised that Aziraphale even talked to him back in the Garden at all instead of ignoring him completely. Any other angel would’ve either walked away without sparing the demon a second glance or would’ve dumped a good portion of Holy Water over his head and call it a day.

Not Aziraphale, though … 

“Mom --”

“Demons are manipulators and shapeshifters,” Beatrice cuts off her daughter, her features stern. She’s apparently not in the mood to hear Rachel’s reasonings. “Don’t even believe for a second that those eyes of his are real. It’s just a trick.”

Crowley can’t help a pout at that.

His eyes -- and also the rest of him -- are quite real, thank you very much.

“Don’t let him fool you!” Beatrice warns. “Your angel would’ve mentioned if his best friend were a demon, don’t you think? Don’t let that monster lure you into its trap. He obviously knows Aziraphale and he knows you too, honey. It’s easy for such a vile creature to play with your head and twist up everything you believe.”

Unfortunately her words have an effect on Rachel. At least the girl’s determination seems to waver a little, her glance flickering back and forth between her mother and Crowley’s eyes. She pulls her hand back, out of his reach, while she studies him intently, as if looking for proof whether Beatrice might actually be right or not.

“I wouldn’t put it past Aziraphale to be friends with a demon,” Rachel, however, points out after a long stretch of silence. She still sounds uneasy, though, like she’s rather trying to convince herself than anyone else with that statement.

“Are you _serious_?” Beatrice snorts.

Rachel presses her lips into a thin line. “He wouldn’t judge. He’s a kind and good soul, through and through.”

Poor girl.

She’s obviously never seen Aziraphale interact with his customers. Or deal with fucking mobsters, of all things.

Yeah, Aziraphale is kind and good and he is most likely the biggest bastard to have ever walked the earth.

It’s actually not much of a miracle that he’s associating with a demon, come to think of it. He certainly lacks the typical angelic characteristics.

(Though, to be fair, so does the majority of the other angels as well.)

Crowley, however, doesn’t do a thing to berate the girl. If she really believes that Aziraphale is such a jolly good samaritan that he even lets any random vile demons into his heart, the better is his own chance of survival.

Instead he collects every single ounce of strength he finds in his body. It feels like countless heavy weights are hanging on his arm, dragging him down and exhausting him to no avail, but nevertheless he fights against it, gritting his teeth and cursing every single witch in the long course of history in the process. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, he actually manages to reach the front pocket of his jacket.

“Letter …” he croaks, his vocal cords not too happy about being interrupted in their slumber once more. “Aziraphale …”

Rachel hesitates for a moment, apparently not really sure what the demon is trying to say to her. Crowley finds himself growling in frustration as he attempts to grab inside the pocket and fails miserably at that usually quite simple task, realising to his own chagrin that his fine motor skills still appear to be exceptionally rusty.

Damned witches and their damned magic tricks. 

Crowley promises himself to seek out every single person responsible for this enchantment -- both the currently still alive ones and also the witches long dead, slobbing about in the afterlife, not having even a little clue how much of a hard time their past magic spell is giving Crowley right now -- and eventually starts to point and hiss to get his point across.

Thankfully Rachel isn’t that overly dense after all since she finally grasps what’s going on. She instantly spurs into action and follows his cue, pulling the letter Aziraphale wrote out of Crowley’s jacket.

And, to her credit, she doesn’t wait around to open it and her eyes widen as she reads it hastily line for line.

“Fuck, you _are_ Crowley!” she whispers as the final realisation truly hits her. “Damnit.”

Crowley couldn’t have phrased it any better. 

Pure poetry.

“He _is_ Aziraphale’s friend!” she announces, for everyone else present to hear, raising the letter into the air. “He’s not a danger to us.”

Henry looks fairly intrigued by this turn of events and even on Clifford’s face a tiny  flicker of an emotion is spotted. Both men stare at the demon and the witch in the centre of the patio, their stances calm and serene.

Beatrice, though, doesn’t seem impressed by any of this. “Oh honey, didn’t I teach you _anything_?” She sounds quite disappointed by her daughter’s lack of cooperation. “This creature is just trying to manipulate you --”

“This letter _is_ written by Aziraphale,” Rachel cuts in, her tone absolutely steady now. “I can feel it --”

“Don’t be a fool --”

“I. Can. _Feel_. It.” Rache interjects once more, her glare so dark even Crowley notices a sensation of unease settling in his stomach. “This is not a trick, Mom. No demon would be able to fake that.”

And she’s very right with that assessment.

A demonic aura could never feign angelic grace, no matter how hard they tried. It’s just an impossible thing to do, for both sides.

“So stop being difficult and help me get him off this stupid veranda,” Rachel orders, a clear edge in her tone that doesn’t allow for any kind of objection. “No killing today! And _especially_ no instagram stories!”

Beatrice, however, doesn’t appear all too keen on hearing anything further about this. She purses her lips in indignation, far from happy about Rachel’s stubbornness, and huffs like a bull about to attack.

And then she growls, “Fuck it!” and heads for the Holy Water again.

Rachel yells in protest, just as Henry, but Beatrice doesn’t even flinch, not wavering in her mission for even a millisecond. She only seems determined to get her hand on the one thing that has the power to kill a demon, no matter what.

Crowley has no idea whether she really intends to use the Holy Water to actually wipe him off the face of the earth or whether she just wants to have it with her as some sort of insurance policy, but he’s seriously not eager to find out either way. It might end up _very_ bad for him.

And so his survival instinct kicks in.

He’s got it perfected almost brilliantly over the last few millennia, having to deal both with the unpredictability of Hell as well as the stupidity of mankind, and also this time it doesn’t disappoint.

He uses the few strings of his magic he has currently access to and just lets it flow.

He actually has no clue what might even happen, his brain too overwhelmed to even gather a single coherent thought, the panic of an early demise rendering his logical mind completely useless, but when Beatrice suddenly trips over nothing and falls flat on her face, he gets a mild idea.

“What the fuck?!” she curses, apparently highly pissed to be interrupted in her enterprise.

Crowley, however, doesn’t wait for her to pick herself up again, but allows his magic to run wild, to _save_ him, to do whatever necessary to see Aziraphale’s stupid angel face again. He would even gladly let the whole building crumble down -- fuck, the entire town -- just for that one single purpose.

His magic isn’t there yet, though. Just a few weeks ago he stopped time faced with Lucifer himself, but now throwing a few humans around seems to be the end of the line.

That bloody spell …

He needs to get off this blasted patio.

 _Now_!

And just on time his body tickles excitedly and his wings finally decide to make a guest appearance. They spread out wide, resulting in several gasps of shock and awe coming from the witches around him, and quiver for a moment, attempting forcefully to shake off the spell wearing them down.

Crowley glances at the Holy Water lying still way too close to Beatrice -- even though she’s currently busy being sprawled on the ground and gawk at the demo with wide eyes -- and calculates his odds. In the best case scenario he would just shoot up in the air and fly off, to never be seen around here ever again. But sadly he realises right away that that’s merely wishful thinking. He doesn’t have the energy to fly right now, not with that enchantment holding him down like that.

So he does the next best thing.

He bites his bottom lip and gives it all he’s got as he flaps his wings, just once. It’s far from powerful or even impressive, however, it’s enough to give him a solid push backwards.

No further than one little step.

But it’s enough.

The wooden and bewitched panels underneath his feet are suddenly replaced by the grass of the Salinger’s garden.

And it feels like he just passed the gate to another dimension.

The spell breaks off him at once, as soon as he’s lost contact with the patio, and Crowley is suddenly hit so fiercely with his body and aura reacting to that sudden and drastic change his knees starts to buckle. His muscles scream, his inside rampage, his magic revolts, his senses come back to full force.

It makes him seriously dizzy for a second there and he tries desperately not to lose consciousness because that’s honestly the last thing he needs right now.

Damnit.

Crowley pants for air -- in, out, in, out --, his body apparently not giving a damn that he actually doesn’t require any oxygen to survive. The need to _breathe,_ to finally be able to control his entire being again, seems stronger than any common sense.

And who is Crowley to complain?

He’s just relieved to feel his muscle tremble, his lungs expand, his magic sing with joy.

He doesn’t know how long he takes to get a good enough grasp to lift his head again and turn his attention back to the witches. At least they haven’t moved from their spots, still gaping at the things unfolding in front of them, absolutely motionless, like they’re suddenly the ones falling victim to the enchantment.

Crowley merely grinds his teeth and stares right back.

Ready for whatever might about to happen now.

And then suddenly an angel falls from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, here I go AGAIN ...  
> You are more than welcome to yell at me in any language imaginable ;D


	8. Lovesickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fella, here we go again :D
> 
> I hope you're gonna have fun!
> 
> -

Crowley simply stares with wide eyes at the scene unfolding in front of him, not having even the faintest idea what is actually happening. 

He only felt an angelic presence and the next thing he knew a bunch of creamy white feathers appeared in his line of sight and suddenly Rachel yelped in shock before being buried underneath a big pile of wings and limbs, spluttering and screaming.

Beatrice and Henry, meanwhile, gape at the events with the same level of shock as Crowley, unable to move or at least react in some other manner.

What the --?

That’s clearly not something he expected to happen anytime soon.

Or _at all._

However, before he’s got a chance to respond in any way -- even a hasty retreat, as long as everybody is still distracted by angels raining out of the sky --, he suddenly senses a second, _very familiar_ presence nearby.

“Oh, my dear!”

Aziraphale pops up next to him seemingly out of thin air and instantly invades the demon’s personal space before Crowley’s brain has any opportunity to catch up.

He just feels overwhelmed, abruptly wrapped up in the angel’s warmth and brightness, while less than five seconds ago he was all cold and alone and feared for his life. It’s like a punch to the face, a nasty whiplash, and Crowley’s knees start to buckle again at this onslaught of _everything._

Aziraphale doesn’t wait around to grab his elbows and stabilise his stance as he notices Crowley slipping up. The angel’s expression transforms into one of absolute distraught, his grip tight and determined, yet at the same time unbearably tender.

“Oh Crowley, are you alright?” Aziraphale asks with a shaky voice. “Are you hurt?”

His eyes roam over Crowley’s body, obviously searching for visible injuries with an almost uncomfortable scrutiny. His gaze wanders over every inch of the demon’s exposed skin, drinking up every single detail, his features so worried and anguished it breaks Crowley’s heart.

So Crowley can’t do anything else but whisper, “I’m fine, angel, I really am.”

He might not have any clue why the angel left the sanctuary of his bookshop and he’s dying to ask, eager to reprimand him for ignoring Crowley’s orders and risking that bloody love enchantment spreading even wider than it already has, but he can’t bring himself to raise his voice in any kind. Not with Aziraphale’s impossibly blue eyes piercing right into the core of his black soul.

“Are you really sure?” Aziraphale urges and -- _goddamnit!!!_ \-- brushes his hand over Crowley’s chest now, obviously keen on checking for himself for any sort of irregularities, may it be a few little bumps or some open gash. The thin material of the demon’s shirt does absolutely nothing to cover up the angel’s touch, his fingertips burning themselves through the fabric like it doesn’t even exist.

And it’s probably only due to the fact that his body functions are still a bit sluggish that Crowley doesn’t blush crimson red from top to bottom. 

“I’m … uh …” 

Crowley presses his lips tightly together, the reasonable part of himself basically screaming to get as much distance between them as possible. Preferably even a country or two. 

Yet he can’t move. This time not because of some annoying witchy chain spell but because of the angel and his entire being. Even the mere thought of retreating at least a little bit, avoid Aziraphale’s proximity, seems just ridiculously laughable.

And Crowley knows this is not a result of this blasted love enchantment. No, the same scenario could’ve happened a week ago, a century ago, _millennia ago,_ and the outcome would’ve just been the same.

Crowley is so fucking weak for the angel, it’s not funny anymore. 

It actually never was.

“What … what are you doing here, angel?” Crowley eventually picks up his voice. It’s too high-pitched and overall utterly pathetic, but at least it’s working somewhat. “You -- you were sssuposed to sssstay in the bookssshop.”

Aziraphale merely huffs in that _not_ adorable way of his. “As if I could have,” he says, shaking his head vigorously. “Crowley, I got so worried --”

“I’m fine,” Crowley cuts in, straightening his back a bit. “I had everything under control.”

Well, not entirely true, but after the initial hiccup Crowley would’ve had no problem dealing with the witches. Probably. 

Aziraphale, however, doesn’t even seem to listen. “I’m so sorry I got here so late.” There so much _emotion_ in his tone Crowley has no idea what to do with it. “I really thought … I was terrified … It’s been a while since I used my wings and I wasn’t accustomed to them anymore and oh, Crowley, what if I would have arrived too late? What if you -- if _you_ \-- _fuck,_ I don’t even want to fathom it!”

Crowley’s jaw goes slack as he hears that foul word coming out of the angel’s mouth. “Aziraphale …”

“What if I would have been too late only because I don’t know how my wings work anymore?” He pulls a face. “What a pathetic kind of angel would that make me? Not even able to save the one thing I care about the most …”

He goes on like that, rambling about his own incompetence, probably not even registering what he’s saying exactly, while Crowley just stands there and stares and feels way too overwhelmed to even use his brain.

“And I _felt_ it,” Aziraphale continues to prate, his gaze not leaving the demon for even a single second. “I felt your panic so vividly. You feared for your life, your _existence,_ and here I was, flapping around like a fledging --”

“Wait, wait!” Crowley interrupts immediately, his heart almost leaping out of his chest at those words. “What do you mean, you _felt_ it?”

He can’t mean --?

Or can he?

“It was awful, _absolutely awful,_ ” Aziraphale continues, apparently eager to talk himself into a frenzy. “I felt so helpless, my dear. I could sense your despair, your utter panic, and I … I just couldn’t do anything, _it was so awful_ …”

He grabs Crowley’s shirt even tighter, as though he can’t stand the mere idea of letting go, of losing this contact, no matter how small. Like he’s afraid Crowley might vanish into thin air if he’s even dared to blink for a split second.

And Crowley wants to hug him, pull him close and reassure him that everything is alright and he has nothing to worry about, but he’s pretty sure the last of his carefully crafted wall would come tumbling down with the angel in his arms, so he only swallows and tries not to freak out.

“You _felt_ that?” he asks, unable to hide the sheer dismay in his tone. “How …?”

“I think it’s the spell,” Aziraphale explains. “It seems I have some kind of connection with everyone who came into contact with it. Even you, though it didn’t have the same effect on you than it did on everybody else. You still came into close proximity though.”

Crowley senses a fairly big lump forming in his throat. “So … you can feel, uh … what I feel?”

The thought is completely terrifying and Crowley is more than ready to spread his wings and fly as far away from here as possible.

Without any hesitation.

Thankfully, though, Aziraphale shakes his head just a second later. “It’s not like I can feel everyone’s mood swings _all the time_ ,” he clarifies. “That would be fairly exhausting, I have to say. No, it seems solely very strong emotions are affected by it.”

Strong emotions?

Well, that doesn’t exactly sound comforting, to be honest.

“So … what do you feel right now?” Crowley prods carefully. “Coming from me, I mean?”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes and studies him for a moment, and just when the demon considers to scold himself for asking just a stupid question to begin with instead of deflecting like usual, the angel sighs. 

“Right now I don’t feel much,” he confesses. “ _He_ and his fairly fake emotions are whitening out almost everything else.”

He gestures at the bundle of white feathers next to them.

The other angel.

Who still got Rachel buried underneath him.

Crowley blinks as he belatedly remembers that they haven’t been alone this whole time. Even Aziraphale seems a bit taken aback, as though he forgot about this as well.

“Aziraphale, my love!” the other angel bellows as he finally leaps to his feet, his young and ridiculously bright face shining so enthusiastically it actually hurts to look at. “I hope everything is in order? Your friend is unharmed?”

His eyes focus on Crowley, as if the demon’s wellbeing is indeed a serious concern for him.

Huh.

Crowley’s honestly not used to angels looking at him like that (apart from Aziraphale, of course). He grimaces hard at the sheer broadness of this guy and instinctively steps a little closer to Aziraphale.

“Who is Mr. Sunshine?” he grumbles.

Aziraphale heaves a deep breath. “Imael,” he explains. “He showed up just when I was about to leave and … well, displayed a lot of interest in helping me out. Who was I to refuse?”

Crowley finds himself assessing Imael intently, sweeping his gaze over the angel’s corporeal vessel in all its glory. On first glance he looks exactly like a mini copy of Gabriel -- tall and handsome and well-dressed, with eyes so sharp they don’t miss anything and a smile way too wide to be genuine -- and Crowley can’t say he’s thrilled to be in such an angel’s company. Imael obviously learned from the best and most likely only his infatuation with Aziraphale is keeping him from sending the demon straight back to Hell right now.

No, instead he merely gazes dreamily at Aziraphale as though he’s the best thing that ever happened in the history of ever (and Crowley actually doesn’t even want to fight with him on that one) and grins dazedly.

“I’m so relieved to see you smiling again,” Imael purrs right into Aziraphale’s face. “It’s pure agony to detect even a slight hint of sadness on your features, like the sun disappearing from the sky and only leaving a disheartening and miserable darkness behind --”

“Yes, yes, I get it,” Aziraphale waves him off impatiently, obviously fairly done with any kind of exaggerating love declarations. “You did well, Imael. Thank you.”

Imael beams as if God Herself bestowed all the world’s happiness upon him.

“Aziraphale, my love --”

“Yes, I know --”

“Your beauty and kindness shine so brightly --”

“This is _really_ not necessary!”

“And your magnificence is incomparable, beyond anything imaginable --”

“I _know,_ you already told me forty-seven times in the last hour alone.”

“And your knowledge of mathematics and your amazing counting skills are _absolutely_ impeccable --”

“Oh dear Lord, is it too late to reset the apocalypse?”

Aziraphale looks more than ready to bury himself deep into the ground with his bare hands and never come out again.

Crowley, meanwhile, feels a weird mix of annoyance, jealousy and unadulterated amusement, and switches between frowning and smirking at the two angel’s back and forth. It surely feels like a very strange tennis match.

“... and your glory and splendour outshine everything --”

“Imael, _please_ …”

“And I’d do _anything_ for you!” Imael emphasises so hard probably even the inhabitants of several alternative dimensions feeling it loud and clear right now. “So if you want me to punish or even kill these humans, I will go right ahead.”

Aziraphale does an exasperated huffing sound. “I’m not -- I don’t --”

“Don’t you want to avenge the Serpent?” Imael asks, clearly confused now. His vision focuses on Crowley once more, his heavenly little Gabriel eyes making the demon squirm uncomfortably straightaway.

“I -- I --” For a moment Aziraphale appears way over his head, his body going tense all over. “I don’t even know -- what happened here? Why -- what … Crowley?”

Crowley merely stares back.

If he’s being honest, he still has no idea what went down here either.

“I was minding my own business,” Crowley murmurs, leaning a tad closer to the angel. “And then …”

He points at the witches.

The witches who have been observing the arrival of their special guests with both awe and mortification. Henry struggled onto his feet again, gaping dumbly like a fish at the scene in front of him, while Beatrice stepped forward, the Holy Water watering her plant totally forgotten all of a sudden.

And Clifford never stopped filming because he’s obviously a dedicated son of a bitch.

“Then what?” Aziraphale urges, a hint of impatience in his tone now. He glares at every single individual close by, opting for being cross with all of them until he’ll get the entire picture of what occurred here.

“Then things spiraled out of control,” suddenly yet another voice decides to join. This time it’s Rachel who is still lying on her back, right where she has been pulled to the ground by Imael before. She leans her head in Aziraphale’s general direction, but she can’t see him for real considering she appears very determined to press her eyes shut. “Please don’t blame my parents, they’re just morons. They got over-excited at the chance of killing a demon and --”

“ _Kill_?” Aziraphale cuts in harshly, his whole being abruptly vibrating so intensely even Clifford lowers his camera. “ _KILL_?”

His eyes dart quickly over the scenery presented to him, eager to assess everything, to drink in every single detail. They stay at Henry and Clifford still pressed against the wall for a while before they wander to Beatrice, with her fluffy robe and messy hair, and eventually settle on the veranda. He releases a little squeal of surprise the moment he most likely notices the subtle, yet powerful enchantment interwoven in the wood.

“What …? He blinks rapidly, apparently bewildered he never recognised this before, although he’s been to the Salinger mansion a couple of times. “What is the meaning of this?”

And then he spots the Holy Water.

It appears innocent and inconspicuous, but angels certainly have some kind of radar when it comes to it. Crowley never really asked before, however, it seems likely that he and his kin would be able to register it hundred miles against the wind. After all, it comes in handy for vaporising demons and that’s what angels surely like to do best.

Well, regular angels, like Imael, for instance. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, goes through various stages of emotions at the unwelcomed sight. Puzzlement, his brows furrowed as he watches the water slowly spilling into the soil. Shock, so deep-rooted and gripping for a moment or two it actually appears it might become part of him for the rest of his life, eternal and forever.

And then comes the fury.

Wild and raw and nothing like Crowley has ever seen in his angel’s features before. It’s truly the epitome of intense and the demon can’t help feeling both intimidated and highly intrigued.

Damnit.

The temperature around them drops significantly as Aziraphale glares at the Salingers with all the might of Heaven, Hell and Beyond. “How _dare_ you?” he hisses through gritted teeth. “How _DARE_ you threaten Crowley’s _existence_ like that? You could have killed him!”

That surely was the idea, Crowley is reluctant to add.

“You could have _destroyed_ him!” Aziraphale is trembling from top to bottom now. “You could have … you could have …” His voice is so shaky with emotions, anger and rage and dread, that Crowley almost fears he might either collapse or explode in the next second. “The damage would have been _indescribable_!”

And then suddenly he turns on his heels and pushes himself into Crowley’s personal bubble again. “Are you _really_ alright?” Aziraphale whispers, his gaze flickering over every inch of the demon’s body. “They didn’t … the Water … it didn’t touch you?”

He seems terrified and Crowley’s chest clenches painfully as he recalls that he can surely share the sentiment. He still feels the utter anguish when he saw the bookshop burn and thought Aziraphale gone and dead for good. It’s been the most horrible moment of his long life, the idea of having to live without his angel unimaginable. 

It appears Aziraphale feels the same way about Crowley.

“I’m okay, angel,” Crowley whispers and, despite his logical brain screaming at him not to do it, takes Aziraphale’s hands into his and squeezes them lightly. “I’m fine. That stupid Water didn’t come even close to touching me.”

An absolute lie, beyond any words, but he certainly doesn’t regret it when he senses the angel relaxing a little bit.

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” Aziraphale breathes. “I can’t imagine …”

“Yeah,” Crowley mutters. 

He doesn’t really wanna picture it either.

“So would you like me to punish these humans?” Imael’s voice suddenly pipes up again, chipper and giddy, like he can’t wait to roast some witches. “It would be my pleasure, love.”

Aziraphale hesitates for a second, as though he, in the light of the new circumstances, can’t help newly evaluating his original position. He glances at their joined hands, something deep flashing up in his eyes, before throwing a look at the Salingers.

Who, surprisingly enough, simply beam back at him.

“If you want to punish us, we would wholeheartedly welcome any kind of repercussion,” Beatrice announces with the utmost delight in her tone. “It would be an outstanding honour.”

Henry hurries to his wife’s side, the same stupid grin on his face. “We totally deserve it, after the way we treated your friend. Kill us, fling us into the sun, send us into the deepest corner of Hell and let us rot there for all eternity and longer. We’re your humble servants and await your judgment with anticipation.”

Crowley mere gapes at them, highly freaked out by this odd behaviour, however, Aziraphale groans a deep sigh and closes his eyes for a minute to collect himself.

“Not _again_ ,” he grumbles, to no one in particular.

At first Crowley has no idea what he is referring to.

And then he realises. The look on the Salinger’s faces -- it’s exactly the same as Imael’s.

Besotted. Smitten.

Charmed.

Bewitched.

By a very strong love enchantment.

Crap.

“Crap,” he hisses.

That’s seriously the last thing they need right now.

Lovestruck witches are even worse than murderous ones.

“Getting _punished_ by you would be the most amazing thing,” Beatrice purrs, her pronunciation sounding uncomfortably lewdly as she steps closer to them. “Do your worst, darling, we deserve it.”

Henry next to her nods in excitement while Imael just looks enthusiastic to wreak some havoc. It’s the strangest and most creepy picture Crowley has seen in a long while (and that’s saying something considering he’s _a bloody demon_ from _fucking Hell_ ) and he instinctively pulls Aziraphale somewhat closer to him. 

The angel, however, doesn’t pay the lovebirds any mind. He doesn’t even spare them a quick glance.

No, his attention is gripped by Rachel.

Right.

The reason why Crowley came here in the first place.

He almost forgot about that.

“Rachel,” Aziraphale whispers, now rather tentative. He probably expects Rachel to burst into love songs right beside her parents the very next moment and visibly dreads this scenario more than anything else.

And if they’re seriously such good friends Crowley surely gets that.

Rachel, in the meantime, managed to scramble onto her feet. She looked far from graceful, especially as she simultaneously covered her eyes with her hands and therefore couldn’t use her arms fully, but in the end she got herself into a vertical position.

“Aziraphale,” she says, a small smile flickering over her lips. “Nice of you to drop by. Though next time you honestly don’t need to throw an angel onto me.”

She sounds normal.

A bit nervous and tense, but clearly not enamoured.

“You’re not in love with me?” Aziraphale finds himself asking nonetheless, grimacing at himself.

Rachel scoffs. “No offence, Aziraphale, you’re really wonderful and everything, but _nope._ ”

Crowley tilts his head and watches her covering her eyes almost forcefully. Probably since the moment Imael buried her underneath himself she quickly shut them and hasn’t tried to sneak a peek since. 

She hadn’t laid her eyes onto Aziraphale.

And she appears to be fine.

“Well, seems like that love spell doesn’t work via voice after all,” Crowley concludes. Another thing they can cross off their list. “Congratulations, angel, you can use your phone again.”

Rachel frowns at that statement. “Is that the reason you didn’t pick up when I tried to call you earlier?”

Aziraphale, however, simply ignores her question as he hurries to ask, “Is this your doing? The spell, I mean?”

“Aziraphale …”

“I wouldn’t be mad,” the angel quickly reassures her. He even lets go of Crowley (the demon doesn’t make an embarrassing sound at that, _no_!) and places his hand onto her shoulder, his touch gentle and soothing. “I know you solely attempted to do me a favour --”

Rachel, however, only laughs. “Really, Aziraphale, it’s totally flattering that you think I could bewitch _an angel,_ but I’d need at least a whole coven and probably some virgin sacrifices to achieve such a thing.”

Aziraphale’s expression falls. “So you’re not …?”

Rachel hastily shakes her head. “I only know what’s going on because of your letter,” she explains. “That’s why I’m currently not looking at you, sorry for that. I figured most love spells operate on sight, so …”

So she shut her eyes and hoped for the best.

And she was right.

Clever girl.

It doesn’t change the fact though that they’re back to square one.

Great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovesick angels, lovesick witches - yeah, Crowley and Aziraphale certainly don't have an easy time here >.<  
> But I hope you enjoyed their shenanigans nonetheless ;D
> 
> Until next time!!


	9. Lemon Tarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my friends!!
> 
> So, I've been using my last days of vacation properly (meaning: I've been writing fanfic all day long) and here you've got the fruits of my labour :D
> 
> I hope you have fun ^^
> 
> -

Aziraphale should feel disappointed.

Disappointed that they’re, despite all their hopes, no closer to any resolution concerning the spell. That they have to start from the beginning again. That right now everything appears dark and dire.

But the sensation of relief is overshadowing anything else at the moment and he can’t bring himself to feel any kind of sorrow for himself. Not when Crowley is right next to him, whole and safe and very much alive.

Aziraphale imagined the worst when he left the bookshop. Crowley’s panic was so real and bone-crushing and when Aziraphale had some trouble getting his wings under control at first and everything took longer than anticipated, he already feared to be too late.

An absolutely terrifying thought.

He probably would have discorporated from the grief alone.

So when he eventually spotted Crowley, so clearly not dead, he felt so immensely relieved it took every single ounce of willpower not to fling his arms around the demon’s neck and press an intense kiss onto his lips.

Aziraphale never kissed anyone before, never really understood why humans made such a big deal out of it, but in that specific moment the urge to do it, to _feel_ Crowley in that way, was so impossibly overwhelming he has actually no recollection how he managed to tame it in the end.

Still, he touched, he stepped way too close into Crowley’s personal space, and though the demon appeared a little stunned and slightly awkward he didn’t tell Aziraphale to keep his distance. On the contrary, once or twice it even seemed as though he was leaning into it.

Aziraphale felt exhilarated. 

And he still does.

“Love spells are really tricky things,” Rachel suddenly jerks him out of his train of thoughts, her expression serious as she wraps Crowley’s scarf, which the demon offered to her just before, around her head to cover up her eyes. “That’s why we usually keep our hands off them. So many things to go wrong. Not to mention the morale aspects of changing someone else’s mind and emotions.”

Aziraphale surely can relate. It’s horrible to think about all these people -- and the one angel -- being manipulated in such a vile manner. It’s not right and Aziraphale is more than eager to set everything right as soon as possible.

“Can you help us?” he wonders, hope swinging in his tone. “I’ve consulted so many books, but it appears such an endless ocean of possibilities I don’t know where to start.”

Rachel tilts her head. “ _Of course_ I’m gonna help you, no matter what,” she states with emphasis. “I owe you so much, I could never repay you anyway.”

“It’s not an obligation, though …”

Rachel scoffs as she most likely rolls her eyes behind the scarf. At least it’s the same facial expression Crowley always shows when he does the exact same thing behind the cover of his sunglasses, so it’s fair to assume.

“Above all else you are my friend, Aziraphale,” she reminds him. “So I’ll help you and I don’t care what you say about it. Just deal with it.”

Aziraphale can’t help smiling softly at her. He’s glad he made such a great friend.

“We’ve got a huge library inside,” she continues, pointing vaguely behind herself. “And a major network to our disposal. People jump when they hear the Salinger name.”

She grins brightly at him while Aziraphale still can’t believe he didn’t notice her connection to the supernatural world before. Her entire house is brimming with magic and all the amulets and talismans around her neck surely aren’t just simple accessoires young women like to wear these days.

Crowley was certainly right, he had been blind all along.

“You think you might find something?” he asks.

Rachel shrugs. “I sure hope so. My parents might be annoying as hell, but I kinda want them back like they were.”

Crowley right next to him snorts as he watches the Salingers and Imael still discussing the various options of possible punishments with each other. Their conversation had become quite lew and graphic in some places (thankfully Imael is way too angelically innocent to have picked up on it yet) and Aziraphale is overall just highly uncomfortable with the entire thing.

And he can’t even imagine what Rachel might feel.

“I know, they’re not the greatest,” she admits, looking at Crowley’s general direction with a grimace. “And I’m sorry what they tried to do to you …”

Sorry is seriously not a good enough word for it, Aziraphale finds.

As soon as Beatrice and Henry will be back to normal, he is going to have a very stern talk with them and make them regret _immensely_ what they did. Aziraphale never had a vengeful bone in his body before, but now he wants to see them crawl on the ground and beg for forgiveness.

At the very least.

Because they were _so_ close to destroying everything Aziraphale holds dear and a simple slap on the wrist is not good enough for such a terrible crime.

Instinctively he reaches out for Crowley and grabs his sleeve, craving for some kind of contact, no matter how small. He just needs to know him by side and he swears to himself he won’t leave his friend out of his sight anytime soon for the foreseeable future. Crowley might not be happy about that, but Aziraphale already decided and he’s more than determined to stand his ground in this matter.

For now, though, the demon actually seems to appreciate Aziraphale’s efforts and sways a little closer, apparently eager for a connection as well. It’s not much, barely even noticeable, but Aziraphale nonetheless feels it deep in his bones.

“First things first,” Aziraphale finds himself saying after shooting Crowley a quick glance. “Before anything else can happen I would like that Holy Water gone.”

He glares at the bottle lying inside the flower pot, all innocent and unremarkable, and curses its very existence. He spotted it right away after he expanded his senses a little and he felt a wave of shock unlike anything else wash over him as he realized how close he had been to losing everything.

It’s a miracle he didn’t just blow the whole building up just out of pure rage.

“The Water needs to be gone for good,” Aziraphale clarifies. It’s not like he plans to stay for much longer with Crowley or anything, but he nevertheless wants to see it disappear out of principle. “If you’re seriously worried about demons, I’m more than happy to help you out. You can call me at anytime if a situation is about to occur and as a precaution I could teach you some proven angelic methods that keep demons at bay …”

As long as it doesn’t end in a dead demon, on purpose or by accident.

Rachel seems to agree as she nods immediately. “That sounds like a solid idea. We’ve got even more Holy Water inside. Not sure how much, but I think it’s scattered all over the place.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “You know, our family hasn’t seen any demons for centuries, but for some reason we need Holy Water _everywhere_. There’s even a freaking bottle in the guest bathroom.”

Crowley actually flinches at that and throws a hesitant look at the building, as though it might come alive and swallow him whole the next moment. Aziraphale feels a vague hint of uncertainty coming from his direction again, apparently Crowley being highly uncomfortable staying in the proximity of so many death traps, and before the angel even realises it the demon leaning more into his side.

Most likely fairly unconsciously, but the need for protection, for _safety,_ is seemingly strong enough that his body acts instinctively on its own.

Aziraphale finds himself tremendously flattered that his friend considers his presence a safe haven in such a manner and he decides right then and there that he can’t have Crowley feeling unsettled for even a second longer.

So he turns toward the group of three -- who currently seem to discuss hanging both Henry and Beatrice headfirst on a tree and dunk their bodies into cow dung with way too much excitement in their voices -- and calls, “Imael, I need your help again.”

He still feels all sorts of bad for using the angel’s fake love to his advantage and make him do things he usually wouldn’t have even considered, but Rachel is blinded right now, Crowley can’t get anywhere near the Holy Water and Aziraphale refuses to leave the demon’s side for even the blink of an eye.

Imael is entering his personal space only 0.002 seconds later, his expression so bright and giddy it almost breaks Aziraphale’s heart. “You want me to take over the responsibility for getting rid of the Holy Water, yes?”

Aziraphale isn’t surprised in the least to learn that he eavesdropped.

Imael’s angelic hearing is superior, after all, and he wouldn’t even entertain the idea to turn a deaf ear out of politeness. The entire concept would probably be highly strange to him to begin with.

No, he just seems to be here to cater to all of Aziraphale’s wishes, no matter what.

And Aziraphale is merely able to sigh in frustration and pray for the spell to disintegrate into a million pieces sometime very soon.

He just wants to go back to the basics: only him, his quiet bookshop, nice walks in the park and delicious meals in the best restaurants in town. 

Preferably, of course, with Crowley as company.

That’s the simple, yet exciting life Aziraphale fiercely craves to get back. It might not look like much from the outside, but it’s everything to him.

And no fucking spell will take that away from him!

“It’s my _absolute_ pleasure to do everything you ask for,” Imael purrs, metaphorical hearts swimming in his eyes as his gaze fixates on Aziraphale alone. “I can’t imagine a greater task than helping my beloved --”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale growls as he waves his hand absently to shut him off. “Just get rid of the Holy Water. Make it disappear until not even a single drop is left behind, do you understand? And don’t let anything get near Crowley.”

Imael coos as if Aziraphale giving him instructions is the highlight of his entire life. “Of course, my love --”

“And take those wannabe-killers with you,” Aziraphale hisses, gesturing at Beatrice and Henry who seem to preen under the angel’s attention. Like a pair of fancy birds, fluffing their feathers and puffing up their chests. It’s disturbing to watch and for some reason Aziraphale is unable to look away. Like a horrible trainwreck.

“I’m sure you can locate all the Holy Water hidden in the house solely by yourself,” he continues, forcing himself to switch his attention back to Imael, “but just let them both point you in the right direction. It’s easier that way.”

Imael’s huge wings shiver all over at Aziraphale’s words. “You’re so considerate, my love,” he breathes. “Trying to make my life easy. And at the same time having so much faith in my abilities. I can’t tell you --”

“Just tell me later!” Aziraphale cuts in impatiently. “Just go!”

Thankfully Imael instantly switches into dutiful angel mode and before Aziraphale even had a chance to blink he already grabbed the two Salinger witches and dragged them into the house.

And Aziraphale can’t keep himself from releasing a relieved breath as they vanish from his line of sight.

He knows they will be back soon enough, but for the time being it’s seriously nice to be surrounded by people who are _not_ in love with him.

Truly refreshing.

(Though, as he can’t help thinking as he quickly glances at Crowley, also a little bit soul-crushing.)

“What about him?” Crowley jerks him out of his thoughts and Aziraphale takes an embarrassing long time to notice he points at yet another figure standing a little in the background the angel totally missed before. 

A middle-aged gentleman with a nice suit and an absolutely blank expression.

He seems vaguely familiar.

“Who is that?” Aziraphale wonders, his skin starting to tingle a little. The man stares at him with his surprisingly pale eyes, but there’s no hint of infatuation in his gaze. No glassy look, no wide and terrifying smile, no tears of joy and love running down his cheeks.

He actually seems a bit bored, to be honest.

What the --?

“Is he … _unaffected_?” Aziraphale whispers, a glimpse of hope starting to blossom in his chest. Might this honestly be the second person, next to Crowley, completely unimpressed by the enchantment?

“That is Clifford,” Crowley explains. “The butler.”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any emotions,” Rachel pipes in helpfully. “At least he has no bloody clue how to express them.” She turns around, a little carefully due to her blinded status, and tilts her head in the direction where she assumes the butler to be. “Hey, Clifford! Are you in love with Aziraphale?”

Not even a single muscle on Clifford’s features twitches as he answers in the most monotonic voice, “Yes, I am.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

Well, this is surely something different, at least.

“You have to excuse him, he’s a freaking robot,” Rachel says with a shrug. “Don’t expect any poems or colourful love confessions coming from him anytime soon. Or _ever._ ”

This is certainly not something to be sad about, Aziraphale has to admit. 

“I guess he’d rather express his devotion through an excessive amount of baked goods,” Rachel adds, chuckling to herself.

Aziraphale finds himself blinking at that new revelation. “Oh?”

“Yeah, his pastries and cakes are literally to die for. People wept over them, they’re so damned good.”

Aziraphale clears his throat awkwardly as he starts to get _very_ intrigued all of a sudden. “Really?” he wonders, a hitch in his voice as he shoots another glance at Clifford. “Well, naturally -- I guess I wouldn’t terribly mind … if he would like to bake me something small.”

Crowley next to him snorts immediately. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

But his tone is rather fond than exasperated, so Aziraphale simply offers him a toothy grin. Because it’s true, at the end of the day he’s fairly predictable.

He probably would’ve been even more inclined toward Imael if the angel would have considered courting Aziraphale with homemade cinnamon rolls and crepes.

He’s weak like that.

“I’m currently in the process of preparing some lemon tarts,” Clifford informs him without any kind of emotion. “I would be more than happy to create some particularly for you.”

The term “happy” clearly means something different to him than the rest of humankind, at least according to his face, but Aziraphale couldn’t care less as he feels his mouth beginning to water at the image.

Lemon tarts.

How exquisite.

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale starts to squirm, barely able to contain his excitement, “I don’t want to impose or anything … but if it’s not too much trouble …”

Clifford obviously understands the angel’s rambles as agreement when he nods curtly once and turns on his heels to head inside, a man on his fairly important mission.

“You’ll never change, huh, angel?” Crowley whispers into his ear, suddenly so close that Aziraphale finds a chill running over his skin, every nerve ending in his body abruptly startling awake. The brush of Crowley’s breath is way more intoxicating than Aziraphale could have imagined.

It takes a moment to collect himself, but in the end he manages a quite convincing pout directed at the demon. “What? It will keep him busy for a while.”

Crowley makes a humming sound the angel has no idea how to interpret, but he instantly decides not to dwell on it. Their arguments tend to get intense and somewhat ridiculous, not to mention time-consuming, and right now there’s not any of that to waste. Especially not with Rachel around, being blinded and forced to overhear their entire conversation, without much chance to escape.

“How about we just get back on track?” Aziraphale proposes. “I’m sure Rachel would appreciate to see the daylight again.”

Rachel perks up at those words. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

“And I’m sure _you_ would like to leave this place as soon as possible,” Aziraphale adds as he demonstratively pushes a finger on Crowley’s chest. “Am I right or am I right?”

Crowley huffs, clearly not happy with Aziraphale’s attitude, but he doesn’t object, so the angel takes it as a win and allows himself a smug smile for a brief moment before turning back to Rachel.

“So, you said you might be able to help me?”

Rachel doesn’t seem to realise at first that the question is aimed at her (and granted, without any eyesight this is surely difficult to determine), but when Aziraphale gently adds her name to make her aware she immediately straightens her shoulders as though she’s preparing for battle.

“As mentioned there are countless love spells around,” she dives into an explanation straightaway. “The effects vary, of course, so we should really determine what we’re dealing with. Any single detail you can think of.” She quirks her head in thought. “At least we know that both the enchantment has to be a powerful one and that the caster needed an enormous amount of magic to make it stick. So either it’s a fairly mighty single person or a talented group of people. At least an entire witch coven, considering this spell is affecting _angels_ in such a way.”

“Not demons, though,” Aziraphale hurries to point out, gesturing wildly at Crowley (who, for some reason looks fairly uncomfortable all of a sudden).

“An interesting detail, but I’m not sure if that would be relevant for our search,” Rachel admits. “That distinction is way too specific. Usually our love spells aren’t tested on Heaven and/or Hell, so there’s no basis to go from.”

She does make a fascinating point, Aziraphale has to confess. Witches and other supernatural creatures as well as humans have concerned themselves with the impacts and aftereffects of such spells on their own people. Why should they have bothered to go through unnecessary lengths to involve Above and Below as well? Especially since normally neither angels nor demons tend to spend a lot of time on earth anyway. After all, Aziraphale and Crowley are actually the only ones stationed here for a longer period of time, the rest usually stay only for a short while or even steer clear of the human world for good altogether.

Yes, they watch from afar -- even the youngest angel sneaks a peek once in a while --, but mostly they consider earth way too filthy and chaotic to leave the perfection of Heaven behind for longer.

Hell is a little more open minded in that regard, but they normally linger on earth just long enough to corrupt some priests or nuns before being on their way again. After all, they didn’t even bother to check up on Crowley and his highly exaggerated reports to them back in the days.

“For now we can only narrow it down to the undeniable fact that it’s a powerful spell performed by someone with enough strength to pull this off,” Rachel says. “Demons not being affected might indicate an involvement of Hell, naturally. But it’s also possible that demons in general aren’t highly influenced by love spells, no matter which one. Like I said, that has never been tested before.”

Aziraphale can’t really say whether he’s relieved or troubled to hear this and settles on a quiet sigh for now.

“We also know the spell works by sight,” Rachel continues. “That’s also an important detail. It’s not located on a single person alone, but basically everyone. Specific enchantments most of the time use potions or hex bags to set the limits, normally mixed with something personal like locks of hair or whatever. Your spell, however, is one that spreads wide and those aren’t actually that common to begin with. Uncontrollable love in such a fashion is rather used as punishment than anything else.”

Aziraphale can’t help grimacing. It sure feels like the worst kind of punishment.

“We’ve got a huge database I’ll look into immediately,” Rachel says, now bouncing on her feet as though she can’t wait to start this unique project. “Not to mention the library my family accumulated over many generations. They remember even spells almost everyone else has forgotten over time.”

Aziraphale can’t help feeling a spur of excitement at the mention of the library. Rachel showed him the last time he was around and he found himself speechless for a long while after this. The library in the north wing of the house is huge and overall quite mind-blowing in its own. Granted, it can’t compete with most of the great libraries Aziraphale visited over the course of history, but as a private collection it’s truly remarkable. 

And now, with the knowledge of Rachel’s true heritage, he can’t keep himself from wondering how many treasures about magic and witchcraft are standing in those shelves.

The urge to run inside and check for himself is truly strong, but Crowley’s presence at his side ultimately keeps him at bay. He would have to leave the demon outside since he can’t cross the enchantment on the veranda, at least not without lots of trouble, and the mere thought of letting Crowley out of his sight again makes Aziraphale nauseous.

Rachel seems to realise that as well, even without being capable of seeing Aziraphale’s expression. “How about I go inside and look through our collection before sending the most interesting books outside for you?” she proposes. “We all have it digitised anyway, so I can go through them in the library while you read the real thing and we could talk about our findings via phone. Might be a bit complicated, but that way we can work with each other without me having to be in the same room as you.”

This actually sounds like quite the good idea.

“If you’re open for it, you’re more than welcome to go deeper into the garden,” she offers, pointing at a group of trees a little far aside. “In the centre is a small pavilion with some comfy furniture. I always like to go there and read my books in peace when my parents get too annoying. Which, as you can imagine, happens very often. Also the reception there is excellent.”

She blushes a bit and Aziraphale can’t help wondering if she used to withdraw to this place mainly to stay in close contact with Marcus, without having to be afraid to get caught by her parents.

Aziraphale finds it rather sweet she is offering her safe haven in such a manner to them.

“And you don’t have to worry about the library books,” she adds as an afterthought. “They’re all protected with lots of magic, you could throw them into an open flame and they would come out of it unharmed.”

That’s good to know. Of course Aziraphale would’ve used a miracle or two to make sure these precious creations wouldn’t suffer any damage, but it’s nice to know he doesn’t need to bother.

“What do you say?” Aziraphale wonders, turning toward Crowley. “Would you be up to it?”

Crowley pulls a face as he lets his gaze sweep around the place, most likely spreading his senses to scent out any more possible demon traps in his vicinity. He doesn’t appear far too happy to have to linger a while longer and Aziraphale already prepares himself for a negative response.

Which would have been fine, of course. If Crowley wouldn’t be comfortable staying even a second more Aziraphale would have just grabbed him and left the place faster than lightning speed.

Eventually, though, Crowley sighs in defeat. “Alright, angel. Let’s do it your way.”

Aziraphale surely doesn’t like the tone of his voice and instantly leans closer, to ensure at least a little privacy. “We don’t _have_ to,” he assures the demon. “If you want to go … I’m sure I’m allowed to take the books with me.”

He’s not sure their magic protection would reach that far, but Aziraphale doesn’t have powers of his own for nothing.

“And what about your lemon tarts, huh?” Crowley reminds him, one side of his mouth twitching upwards. “We can’t have you miss that, can we?”

“Forget about them,” he insists and he genuinely means it. No tarts or crepes or whatever are worth even a moment of discomfort on Crowley’s part. “If you want to leave --”

“I’m a big boy, Aziraphale,” Crowley cuts in with a huff. “Besides, with all the Holy Water gone they’re basically just a bunch of obnoxious witches, right?”

It’s not as easy as that, but Aziraphale refrains from pointing it out.

“Furthermore, it looks rather peaceful and everything,” Crowley adds while avoiding the angel’s gaze. “I bet your bookshop is already crawling with your admirers again.”

Aziraphale grimaces at that. Unfortunately he might actually be right. He managed to shoo those poor souls away for the time being, but if the enchantment is seriously that powerful it won’t last for long.

“Crowley …”

The demon, however, views their conversation over with as he turns back to Rachel. “Give me your phone,” he says. “I’m gonna save my mobile number in there since that stupid angel over here hasn’t even acknowledged the fact that we’re not living in the 19th century anymore.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “I know _fairly_ well --”

But both Rachel and Crowley ignore him as they switch their numbers to ensure a steady communication between them.

And then he takes Aziraphale by the upper arm and spins him toward the direction of the mentioned pavilion. “Let’s go, so Rachel will be able to take off that scarf,” he commands. “No dawdling.”

It’s nice of him to consider Rachel’s situation, but Aziraphale has a sneaking feeling he’s actually more keen on putting as much distance as possible between himself and that enchanted patio than anything else.

And Aziraphale is more than willing to give him that.

“I’m gonna call you when we’re out of sight,” Crowley tells Rachel. “I will push him into some bushes if he takes too long.”

“ _Hey_ \--”

“And if you’ve got a bottle of wine, send that out as well,” Crowley continues, totally ignoring Aziraphale’s protest. “I need something to occupy myself with while this moron gets lost in his books again.”

Rachel smiles softly. “Sure. It’s the least we can do.”

“After trying to kill me? Yeah, it the very least.”

But there’s some humour in his voice, making it crystal clear that he doesn’t blame Rachel for anything, and she responds with an even wider grin.

“I’ll even make that two bottles.”

Crowley beams. “Excellent.”

And then they’re on their way, deep into the garden, to hopefully find some answers to this whole dilemma sometime soon.

Though, Aziraphale has silently to admit, as long as he knows Crowley near him everything is alright in his books anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in the next chapter:  
> Crowley and Aziraphale all alone again, right in the middle of a garden - what can go wrong? 😁


	10. Snake Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my friends!!
> 
> I’m finally back :D
> 
> You know the feeling when you have to work constantly or you’re just busy with whatever 24/7 and you’re simply bombarded with like 10,000 new ideas and no time to write them down?
> 
> So bad news: This took me a bit longer to wrap up!  
> Good news: It got me a bunch of new ideas I’m sure you’re gonna enjoy :D
> 
> And thankfully my schedule for November looks quite good so far, so I hope I’m gonna be able to squeeze some quality and quantity writing time out of it! (Especially since I finished another WIP a few days ago and finally have more time for this mess of a story ;D)
> 
> I hope you’re pumped up for Aziraphale, Crowley, the garden and lots of alone time!
> 
> Have fun ^^
> 
> -

Rachel’s little sanctuary is actually located way deeper into the garden than originally anticipated. At least Crowley and Aziraphale find themselves strolling leisurely through the open ares and bushes and one small maze for what feels like half an hour.

Eventually they spot Rachel’s pavilion, right into the centre of a large group of trees, just like she told them. It’s not a huge one -- barely big enough to hold more than four people comfortably -- but it seems cosy and secluded and that’s all Crowley is currently asking for.

He stills feels some magic lingering about, like basically anywhere else on the property, and he can’t help hesitating a bit as he scans the entire vicinity even more intensely. He seriously doesn’t want to walk into another trap yet again. Even with Aziraphale at his side that would be highly inconvenient. Not to mention embarrassing.

Thankfully, though, Crowley’s alarm bells don’t start to ring and he releases a relieved breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding onto in the first place. Granted, he likes to think that Rachel would’ve warned him about any possible demon-repelling spells lying around here somewhere, but her family has been crazy witches for centuries and you can never know what kind of horrible surprises they might’ve hidden just for a poor demon like him.

But he doesn’t feel anything of that kind and, more importantly, neither does Aziraphale apparently. He appeared calm and relaxed the whole time they walked over here, however, Crowley surely noticed the angel being hyper-aware of their surroundings and double-checking everything, even more so than the demon himself. A possible trap would’ve never slipped his notice.

He made extra sure that his friend would be safe and Crowley is having a really hard time dealing with that protective side of Aziraphale.

Admittedly, it’s not the first time Aziraphale had been concerned about his well-being (after all, they spent long decades arguing with each other about the Holy Water Crowley asked of him as insurance, way before the apocalypse), but this is something different. It seems like Aziraphale is constantly on the verge of wrapping Crowley in countless blankets and never letting him out of his sight ever again.

That image does some very weird things to Crowley’s system.

So instead of dwelling on that and driving himself insane in the process he concentrates on the here and now, hoping it’s distraction enough to make him forget the unexpected force that is Aziraphale as a knight in shining armour.

The pavilion is equipped with lots and lots of large pillows, transforming the entire thing into a snugly corner absolutely perfect for tuning out the world in general and obnoxious witch parents in particular. It’s not hard to picture Rachel spending long hours here and enjoying every second of it.

Crowley immediately dives into the ocean of pillows and allows himself a long sigh. He would’ve never admitted it in front of anyone, but that enchantment took a huge toll on him. Trying to fight back for control, every tiny inch, had been truly exhausting and he’s just glad to let himself relax for a while now.

Aziraphale offers him a fond smile as he looks at the demon sinking into the pillows like a little child. “This looks fairly comfortable.”

“Then join me, angel,” Crowley prods, grinning widely at him as he gestures with his hand to follow his example.

Aziraphale keeps still for a second, probably wondering whether it’d be dignified to jump right in and squeal in delight, but in the end he obviously decides to screw it and drops into the fluffiness right next to Crowley.

And so they stay like this for a while, an angel and a demon, lost inside a sea of pillows, quietly enjoying the scenery and their company and letting the stress of the last hour drain out of them.

Crowley, for his part, can’t help feeling kind of peaceful. It’s not a sensation he’s overly familiar with, but has been growing very persistently in the last few weeks since the almost-apocalypse. As Hell’s tool he never really had a truly quiet moment just for himself. Granted, most of the time Hell left him to his own devices and only bothered him occasionally with some assignments, but there was still this dark cloud hanging over his head all the time. Even when Hell didn’t reach out to him for years or decades Crowley still felt it, hovering in the background. Constantly being there.

But now they are free -- or at least as free as it gets -- and Crowley finds himself craving for things he never dared to even think about before. 

Like the absence of noises and sounds.

He moved to London because it was a wonderful starting point to inflict some good old-fashioned misery efficiently. (And he chose the place because of Aziraphale, but that was something he never mentioned in any of his reports, naturally.) And over time the city grew kind of dear to him. 

But now, with their newfound freedom, Crowley aches for more. London is amazing and colourful and also extremely loud and he’s not really sure anymore if that’s something he will be able to endure for much longer. The city is only growing, more people, more noises, more smells, and Crowley can’t see it getting better anytime soon.

So sitting here, inside this pavilion in the middle of nowhere, with only some birds chirping as the only source of sound Crowley asks himself if a change of scenery would be something he should endeavour in the future. Moving into the countryside, far away from any major cities.

Just him and peace and quiet.

And, preferably, Aziraphale as well.

Not that Crowley expects him to leave his beloved bookshop behind, but at the end of the day they’re a demon and an angel with miracles at their disposal to make almost everything work if they put effort into it. He’d never want Aziraphale to miss a single thing.

He stares at Aziraphale, at his solemn profile, and wonders whether that is something the angel would want. If it’s something the demon might dare to even ask of him.

Crowley sighs silently and turns his attention to the trees surrounding them. They’re large and green, probably standing around here for a very long time, quiet witnesses of the world changing around them, and Crowley suddenly feels a strong urge to transform into his snake form and slither through their branches.

Just like in the old days.

He doesn’t indulge in it very often, but sometimes the impulse to just follow his instincts is fairly powerful.

Hide up in the trees. Wrap himself around some branches. And afterwards coil up onto Aziraphale’s lap and simply enjoy his proximity.

Sounds really nice.

“If you want to turn into a snake and play up in the trees, be my guest,” Aziraphale’s amused voice suddenly jolts him out of his thoughts, making Crowley flinch at the sudden break of silence.

“W-what?”

“Snake. Trees.” Aziraphale points at the crown with a gentle smile. “Have fun.”

For a moment Crowley can do nothing else but stare at him, his jaw going slack.

“W-wh- how --?” All of a sudden he shivers from top to bottom. “Does that bloody spell make you read my mind now?”

An absolutely terrifying thought.

He already prepares himself to run far away and never return.

Aziraphale, however, merely chuckles. “Don’t worry, old friend, your private thoughts are safe,” he assures him. “It’s just that you’re displaying your I-want-to-be-a-snake face right now. Or, for short, your snake face.”

Crowley lifts his eyebrows in confusion. “My what?”

“Your snake face.”

“I don’t have a snake face.”

“Yes, you do.”

Crowley huffs. “I don’t … I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale scoots a little closer, his body warmth pulling Crowley in without his permission. “It’s just that sometimes you get this expression on your face. It’s fairly subtle, I have to admit, and it took me a couple of centuries to even notice it, but it’s clearly there. Everytime you want to let loose and transform into your original serpent form.”

Crowley simply gapes.

He had no idea he had been so bloody transparent all this time.

And how come Aziraphale spotted  _ that  _ and not some other things most likely showing up on Crowley’s features from time to time?

Or did he notice and just decided to never address it?

Crowley can’t help feeling a little unsettled at that possibility.

“I, uh …”

“Just go ahead, there’s no immediate danger closeby,” Aziraphale says, all sorts of encouraging. “You’re perfectly safe.”

“Um …”

“And I always love to see you in this shape,” Aziraphale confesses, an unexpected softness in his tone. “You’re really beautiful as a snake.”

Crowley freezes on the spot, stares at the angel with raised eyebrows and tries his best not to blush like a teenage schoolgirl.

Aziraphale, in the meantime, suddenly seems to catch up on what he blurted out without a second thought and starts to squirm awkwardly on his pillow. “I mean … my dear … you’re always beautiful, in any shape or form … um …” His cheeks turn wonderfully pink and Crowley finds himself entranced by it. “I’m just … snakes -- and animals in general … God’s creations, so magnificent …”

And then he rambles on, about the beginning of time itself, almost talking himself into a frenzy, and Crowley isn’t exactly sure whether he should be delighted or horrified by this turn of events.

Thankfully, though -- for both himself as well as Aziraphale -- Clifford all of a sudden appears on the scene, with an unimpressed face squeezing himself through a bunch of narrow bushes while balancing a huge tray in his arms.

Aziraphale immediately forgets whatever might have gone down just now as he spots the pile of books and the little plate of biscuits on it. His eyes light up in excitement, dear old Clifford clearly having a knack pressing all the right buttons with the angel -- smelly, ancient pages and baked goods, Aziraphale’s undeniable kryptonite --, and he straightens his posture as the butler approaches them.

Crowley, meanwhile, sets his sights on the two bottles of wine Clifford is carrying, just like a champ.

Either he’s using some witchy support to wear such weight with him or he’s simply that bloody amazing at his job.

Crowley strongly assumes it’s the latter.

However, just as Clifford is about to put the tray on the little coffee table right next to Aziraphale suddenly that unremarkable piece of furniture begins to move. For a brief second it’s merely a small shiver, which could’ve been explained by an uneven ground or whatever, but then it all of a sudden startles awake, like a bear awoken from its slumber, and abruptly rushes off into the wilderness on its four legs with lightning speed.

Three pairs of eyes watch it disappear behind the bushes in various states of confusion and disbelief.

(Even Clifford forgets for a hot minute to maintain his stoic expression and looks slightly baffled.)

The silence between them stretches for a while.

And eventually Crowley scoffs and shakes his head. 

“Bloody witches and their bloody magic.”

Bringing a coffee table to life -- that’s so stupid it isn’t even funny anymore.

Aziraphale beside him winces at those words and instantly starts to squirm on his pillows. “Yes, right, witchcraft,” he agrees, nodding his head so fiercely it appears in danger of falling off any moment now. “It’s witches and witchcraft -- I mean, what else could it be, right? -- who would do such a thing? -- other than witches, of course --”

Crowley lifts an eyebrow at his friend. “You alright there, angel?”

“Yes,  _ naturally, _ ” Aziraphale says way too enthusiastically, his cheeks a bright red colour all of a sudden. “Why shouldn’t I be fine? I mean -- alcohol?”

He hastily grabs one of the bottles off Clifford’s tray and shoves it in Crowley’s face before the demon has even a chance to process all this.

“Um …”

“Let’s get drunk, eat biscuits and read books!”

Crowley still studies him suspiciously for a second there, wondering whether he missed something important, but Aziraphale’s smile is wide and bright ( _ too _ wide and bright, come to think of it) and Crowley could never resist the combined power of booze and his angel beaming at him.

So he takes the wine and states, “Let’s do this!” 

 

\-----

 

“Can you believe that? I thought I’ve seen the depths of human atrocity, but  _ this _ \-- this is just outrageous!”

Aziraphale gestures at the open book in his lap, at least for the hundredth time in the last half hour, and finds himself gobsmacked once more. Rachel’s books surely turned out to be an impressive source of knowledge, the spells and curses in it so ancient they’re almost going back to the beginning of humanity itself, but at the same time it became harder and harder to even look at them the more minutes passed.

(At least if you have a personal involvement in all of this.)

(From an academic point of view it’s absolutely fascinating.)

“There’s an enchantment that forces everyone to fall in love just by saying their name.” Aziraphale huffs a breath as he studies the very detailed graphics. “Can you imagine? I just had to say ‘Crowley’ and you’d be my devoted slave, your mind and personality erased.”

The demon sprawled next to him on the pillows quirks his head, obviously evaluating the situation. He hadn’t that much wine to drink yet, despite him constantly sipping on his glass, but his brain’s already starting to work at little more slowly, it seems.

He surely takes his time to think about his answers and Aziraphale can’t help wondering what Crowley would just blurt out if he’d let the alcohol overtake him for a change.

“Well,” Crowley eventually says, his speech a little slurred, but overall still steady, “considering my name isn’t technically ‘Crowley’ … I guess that example doesn’t hold up, angel.”

Aziraphale merely scoffs at that argument. “You chose that name for yourself and you identify yourself with it --  _ of course _ it’s yours then. No questions about that.”

Crowley’s gaze suddenly turns rather intense, even with those sunglasses covering his eyes, and Aziraphale can’t help fidgeting a bit under such scrutiny.

And in the end the demon leans somewhat closer, his breath brushing over Aziraphale’s face, and whispers, “Well then, I guess being  _ your  _ slave wouldn’t be that bad, I assume.”

Aziraphale, both highly bothered by Crowley’s proximity and the low tone of his voice, needs all his strength to fight back a full-on blush.

“I mean, all you would use me for is drinking wine with, taking you to dinner and fetching you some books, right?”

Crowley grins widely, as though he just made a truly hilarious joke.

While Aziraphale swallows audibly and tries very hard not to imagine all the other things he might the demon use for.

No.

NO.

This is not the path his thoughts should go. EVER.

Aziraphale clears his throat awkwardly and turns his attention back to the book, hoping for some quick distraction. Thankfully he finds one just a few seconds later and he grabs it tightly before Crowley could ever attempt to deepen their conversation.

“And look at that,” he says, pointing at a passage of the text in front of him way too enthusiastically not to be suspicious, “this spell is so powerful even the fauna would fall under it.”

Crowley adepts to the sudden change of topic like it’s nothing (probably already used to Aziraphale acting irrational from time to time) and barks a laugh. “So, like all the wildlife suddenly falling in love with you?”

He giggles ( _ giggles _ ), apparently thinking the picture tremendously amusing.

“You think that’s the true origin of the Pied Piper of Hamelin?” the demon wonders, his face so alight by joy Aziraphale has a fairly hard time not being mesmerised by it. “All those rats following him around, absolutely smitten?”

Aziraphale, meanwhile, hurries to shove one of the delicious biscuits into his mouth to prevent himself from saying something he might regret.

“Sounds like a blast,” Crowley says with a bright grin.

Aziraphale, however, only looks at the book’s picture of a spider building its net into a heart shape and isn’t exactly sure whether that seriously would be that much fun.

“You sure this isn’t part of your spell as well, though?” Crowley asks, scooting a bit closer again and making it so much harder for Aziraphale to form any coherent thought. “I mean, you’re clearly under a powerful enchantment. Have you interacted with any animals so far?”

Aziraphale grimaces and wants to tell him he’s being ridiculous, but then he finds himself thinking the matter over. He indeed hasn’t really been in contact with any animals yet. Not consciously, at least.

“I, um …” he says eloquently, suddenly the image of that spider getting way more disturbing.

“Why don’t we test the theory?” Crowley appears fairly gleefully as he suddenly begins to shuffle and bend his body, and before Aziraphale has any opportunity to ask what the hell he is trying to do the demon stretches his hand forward, a ladybug crawling over his fingers. “So, little fella, what do you say? You think the angel is the hottest piece of entity you’ve ever seen?”

He handles the little bug carefully as he pushes it closer to Aziraphale, obviously highly keen to see any kind of reaction.

The ladybug, however, seems more interested in exploring Crowley’s finger and, once satisfied, spreads its wings and flies off. It didn’t even spare a glance in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Hm, doesn’t seem to work on bugs apparently.” Crowley sounds annoyingly disappointed about it.

“You should really --”

“What about you, huh?” Crowley cuts in, totally ignoring the angel in favour of waving at a bird sitting on a nearby tree. “You in love with the angel?”

The bird simply stares at them, not even moving a muscle.

“Look at that, he likes you.” Crowley chuckles. “Probably wants to be your  _ bird _ -friend.”

Aziraphale merely rolls his eyes at the bad pun. “Animals always have been a little drawn to me, due to my nature. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the spell.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“So I don’t have to fight with a horde of insects for your attention?” Crowley pulls a face, seemingly not very certain whether he should, in the long run, be relieved by that or not. “Well, I guess it makes sense. I’m a snake and you don’t see me writing love poetry.”

“You’re  _ a demon, _ that’s totally different.”

“Are you so sure about that? Who says I don’t like to hurl down alive mice once a month?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, ready to dispute Crowley’s statement, but in the end nothing comes out. In a way the demon has a point here, Aziraphale has no admit. He has no real idea what the demon all tends to do in his freetime.

He really needs to change that, as soon as this mess is over.

“I’m just …” Aziraphale blinks a few times, not sure at first where he wants to go from here. “Um … I guess we can cross lovesick fauna off our list, don’t you think?”

He eyes the bird who still keeps looking at them, but otherwise makes no moves to declare his love or something.

“Quite a shame,” Crowley mutters, with a smirk on his face. “You could’ve been Snow White, singing and making the wildlife clean your bookshop.”

Aziraphale shuts his eyes and tries to blend out any images that might turn up at that prospect. “This isn’t funny, Crowley,” he says, trying for reprimanding but still feeling fairly affected by the demon’s closeness. “It’s just … the situation …”

Crowley’s features soften a little. “I know, angel,” he says. “It will be fine. Just wait and see.”

Aziraphale would love to have his optimism.

“And if not, I can at least surround myself with demons, blind people and children for the rest of my life,” he points out, the corners of his mouth drooping downwards. “Can you imagine?”

“Well --”

“I’m not good with babies, Crowley!” he states with emphasis. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with them. That’s why  _ you  _ were Warlock’s nanny, not me. What do you do with a baby?”

Crowley’s expression shifts between amused and concerned. “Why are we talking about babies, Aziraphale?”

“It’s just …”

He sighs, having not a single clue what he even wanted to say in the first place.

“Believe me, angel, no one will entrust their baby to you,” Crowley promises with a snicker. “I mean, you couldn’t even take care of your flaming sword. A tiny human would have no chance with you.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Those are two totally different scenarios you shouldn’t compare.”

“It’s true, though.”

“A baby would be perfectly safe with me.”

“But you wouldn’t know what to do with it, right?”

“Right.”

“Why don’t you try singing? The little pooper might start cleaning your bookshop.”

“Crowley!”

The demon huffs a laugh. “I’m just saying -- why the fuck are we even talking about babies? Am I more drunk than I thought and totally imagining this conversation or are you slowly losing your mind, angel?”

Aziraphale grimaces as he realises he can’t exactly contradict. His thoughts seems splattered all over the place, making it incredibly hard for him to focus on something that matters instead of nonsense.

This whole mess is really beginning to grate on his nerves.

“Just don’t waste your time panicking or whatever,” Crowley says, now a certain warmth in his tone. “Do what you do best: ask your precious books for advice. They’ll give you the right answer. Eventually.”

Aziraphale can’t help a soft smile. “I had no idea you suddenly started to put that much trust into books.”

Crowley scoffs. “I don’t. But I trust you.” He shrugs his shoulders. “You’re gonna find a way out of this.”

Something surprisingly warm spreads within Aziraphale’s chest and for a moment or two he finds himself speechless. Granted, it shouldn’t be astonishing that Crowley trusts him, not after everything they’ve been through, but hearing it with his own ears does something funny to Aziraphale he’s not sure he wants to elaborate right now.

Not if he prefers to maintain the rest of his sanity.

So in the end he does as Crowley told and turns his attention back to his books again. Crowley, thankfully, seems absolutely fine with that, obviously deeming the conversation over as well, and goes back to appreciating the tasty wine Rachel sent for him. Soon enough he’s effectively lost in his own world and Aziraphale finds himself getting sucked into the vast universe of love enchantments once more.

It’s about another twenty minutes later when he eventually casts a quick glance to the side, after suddenly noticing that Crowley had been suspiciously quiet for a while now, and unexpectedly sees himself confronted with a sleeping demon.

Naturally Aziraphale is quite aware that Crowley enjoys to take some naps from time to time (sometimes a short affair, sometimes an almost century long engagement), but he’s actually never been witness of this before. Admittedly, Crowley may have closed his eyes once or twice for a while as he sat in the bookshop, but a deep slumber is something entirely different.

Now, however, Crowley obviously had been way more exhausted by the prior events than the angel realised and couldn’t help succumbing to some much needed sleep.

Aziraphale surely hasn’t been prepared for how peaceful Crowley looks in this state. His muscles loose, his breathing shallow, his features innocent.

He looks almost like the little child he never was.

Aziraphale feels a strong wave of affection rush over him and he can do absolutely nothing to fight it back. On the contrary, without his permission he finds himself reaching out.

Crowley’s head is nestled very closely to Aziraphale’s leg, as if he sought for closeness in his sleep, and Aziraphale is truly incapable of keeping his hand from laying on top of the demon’s hair and digging his finger deep into his strands.

Aziraphale tries to fight it, he really does, and he’s completely mortified by his own actions, yelling  _ stop it, stop it, stop it, _ loudly inside his mind, but it’s to no avail. His body moves on its own, truly unimpressed by Aziraphale’s common sense.

And it gets even worse when Crowley actually leans into the touch, a slight smile flickering over his lips, and mumbles a drowsy, “Angel …”

It sounds soft and gentle and only the fact that he’s still fast asleep keeps Aziraphale from flinching back and fleeing over to the next country in a hurry.

Instead he sighs and curses his very existence.

This has surely the makings of a  _ very  _ long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn’t mutual pining a marvellous and torturous thing? >.<
> 
> And I can promise you it’ll even get worse/better in the next few chapters!
> 
>  
> 
> Until then, my friends!


	11. To Be Honest With Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are again!
> 
> And once again I wanna thank you SO MUCH for all your comments/kudos/subscriptions 💗 The sheer resonance for this story is truly overwhelming!!
> 
> And without further ado, have fun ^^
> 
> -

It’s about twenty minutes later when Crowley’s phone suddenly starts to vibrate.

Thankfully the demon fished it out of his trousers and put it on the pillow next to him before falling asleep, because Aziraphale surely wouldn’t have been overly thrilled trying to get it out of Crowley’s impossibly tight jeans. It would have resulted in a lot of touching and groping and probably accidentally brushing certain body parts the angel can’t even think about without blushing, so all in all it’s clearly for the best Crowley showed some foresight.

Aziraphale hastily grabs the mobile device, careful not to disturb Crowley’s still fairly deep slumber, and takes an embarrassingly long time figuring out how it even works, despite the instructions for answering the call actually showing up on the screen.

Eventually though he manages to swipe onto the right side and immediately finds himself confronted with Rachel’s amused laugh at the other end of the line.

“I was just about to send the cavalry,” she says with a chuckle. “Modern technology isn’t the easiest, huh?”

Aziraphale can’t help a pout. “It’s not my fault humanity decided to create their little machines as complicated as possible.”

Whatever happened with just picking up the earpiece or pushing a simple button? You couldn’t do much wrong with that.

“I assume Crowley isn’t around to help you out?”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line. “He’s asleep.”

He casts yet another glance to his side (the 29,684th one in the last half hour) and drinks in the sight of the demon’s sleeping form. Aziraphale threw a blanket he found between the pillows over his body a while ago and Crowley appears so small and vulnerable in this state the angel has still no real idea what to do with it. There are just these immense urges of protectiveness and the powerful desire to lie down next to him and  _ cuddle. _

Aziraphale never cuddled with anyone before in his entire life and now it’s more or less the only thing he’s able to think about.

That and to keep on stroking Crowley’s hair. 

Something he’s been absolutely incapable of quitting for more than a few minutes since Crowley drifted off. Aziraphale scolded himself repeatedly, even threatened himself with all kinds of punishment, but it merely worked for like a heartbeat and then his traitorous fingers dug themselves into Crowley’s strands again.

It seems a completely futile endeavour to stop. At least as long as Crowley is still asleep.

But what is an angel about to do when a demon smiles so warmly in his sleep and leans into the touch like an affectionate cat? How is  _ anyone  _ to resist something like that?

Crowley is tempting him beyond measure even without realising it — even without being conscious to begin with — and Aziraphale condemns the power the demon has over him.

“So, did you find the books I sent you helpful?” Rachel’s voice suddenly jerks him out of his reverie.

Aziraphale is more than grateful for the distraction and instantly dives into the topic with an incredible passion. He talks and talks and talks, for hours, it seems, and listens to Rachel’s interesting findings and simply loses himself in the world of books and knowledge and witchcraft. After a while he even notices how much he’s enjoying himself, even considering the dire subject, and realises how long it’s been since he’s had such a passionate intellectual discussion with another person.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves his talks with Crowley — the small ones, the big ones, even the silly and weird ones —, they’re basically Aziraphale’s favourite thing in the world, but the demon never showed much enthusiasm for books and the vast wisdom hidden inside of them, so it’s truly nice to have someone to share this with.

Aziraphale seriously has no idea how much time has already passed when Rachel suddenly falls quiet for a while, like she’s contemplating some fairly serious matter, before asking eventually, “Crowley’s still asleep?”

Aziraphale automatically looks at the demon’s direction. Naturally he can’t see Crowley’s eyes behind the dark glasses, but his entire body is still relaxed and loose, his features so soft Aziraphale actually curses the fact he has no clue how to operate the phone’s camera so he would be able to capture this moment forever.

“Yes, he is still asleep,” the angel confirms, hoping the emotions he’s most definitely feeling right now at full force don’t broadcast through his voice.

“So he can’t hear us?”

There is something about Rachel’s tone that makes a shiver run down Aziraphale’s spine and he finds himself entirely grateful he decided to use a small miracle before, right after he picked up Rachel’s call, to tune out their voices, so Crowley wouldn’t be disturbed in his sleep by them talking about their findings.

“He can’t hear a thing right now,” Aziraphale states, rather warily.

“Good.” Rachel chuckles. “Because DAMN!”

Aziraphale blinks.

Did he miss something?

“Uh … what?”

Rachel laughs so loudly the angel doesn’t even need the phone connection to hear it. “A  _ demon, _ Aziraphale?” she practically shouts into the earpiece. “A  _ DEMON _ ?”

Aziraphale begins to squirm awkwardly in his pillow.

“I don’t know what you’re implying here --”

“You  _ dog, _ Aziraphale!” Rachel snickers, apparently having the time of her life. “You  _ sly, sly dog _ ! I seriously can’t believe this!”

Aziraphale honestly doesn’t know how to react, so he keeps silent and hopes that whatever this is will be over soon.

“I mean, when you talked about Crowley before I just thought he’s a fellow angel you’ve got this huge crush on,” Rachel explains happily. “The way you described him and everything -- well, I assumed he must be the brightest being in the entire universe. So imagine my surprise …”

Aziraphale grimaces and for a moment he actually considers to simply throw the phone as far away as possible and avoid her at all costs. After all, she can’t just come up and confront him personally right now.

But then that would be incredibly rude and he sincerely cares about her too much to forget any kind of manners.

Instead he goes for denial.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about —”

“You know  _ exactly  _ what I’m talking about.”

“I didn’t mention Crowley  _ that  _ often —”

“Only about 90% of the time.”

“You’re exaggerating —”

“I mean, it’s understandable. Most of the time I can’t stop gushing over Marcus either, so it’s only relatable that you want the whole world to know about your gigantic crush —”

Aziraphale flushes deep red from top to bottom, even if she can’t see him right now.

“I don’t have  _ a crush. _ ”

It’s ridiculous.

He’s an angel. Angels don’t get crushes.

“You’re right,” Rachel agrees and for a second there Aziraphale exhales in relief. But then she adds, “It’s more than that,” and the angel feels dread blooming inside of him.

How did they come here? All he wanted to do was talk about love curses and the black soul of humanity, nothing more and nothing less.

“Rachel …”

“Look, honey, if you really don’t even wanna think about it, I’ll back off,” she promises, her tone gentle now. “I’m not keen on making you uncomfortable. God knows I’ve experienced that more than enough with my parents already, I certainly know how crappy it can be.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line and keeps quiet.

“But you have to admit at least to yourself that there is  _ something _ ,” Rachel continues. “It’s not that hard to notice. And maybe you went a bit overboard ‘cause I can imagine there are not that many people out there you can be entirely honest with. About Crowley and your entire life story. So yeah, perhaps you just got a bit excited and dumped it all on me without realising how you even sounded. Maybe you’re indeed merely an enthusiastic angel who got giddy to talk about his best friend in such a manner.”

She takes a deep breath, as though bracing herself. “I can’t even begin to picture your relationship with him. I mean, six-thousand years — no human would be able to comprehend that. So maybe after all that time you seriously just sound like a lovesick bastard, even though there is no romance involved. Who am I to be the judge of that?”

Aziraphale wants to nod, wants to agree that yes, he simply got a bit carried away, since he seriously didn’t have that many opportunities in the past to talk about his and Crowley’s story without earning a few funny stares. 

But he can’t bring his muscles to cooperate. No nodding, not even an affirmative grunt.

It feels like a betrayal to even consider it.

Because at the end of the day she is indeed right. It’s more. More than just a friend happy to tell some nice stories about his long-term companion.

“So yeah, maybe it’s just that, or maybe not” Rachel says. “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always have an open ear.”

Aziraphale pauses.

He knows she’s giving him an out and he could easily take it and get back to enchantments and witches and the wisdoms of life. It would be simple and as close to flawless as possible and Aziraphale probably would never hear of it again unless he would address it himself at some point once more in the future.

Because Rachel knows about pressure and awkward subjects and she is kind enough not to let anyone else live through it.

So yes, Aziraphale could just go on and forget about it. Write it off as two uncomfortable minutes he will never have to think about again. For the rest of his existence.

And yet …

Part of Aziraphale is actually dying to bring it to light. To talk about it. 

Finally.

To use his words and metaphors and hand gestures instead of mulling it over inside his head, only for himself to hear or analyse. It’s been kind of lonely in his mind — at least in that very particular regard — and he’s getting rather tired of it.

Especially after the apocalypse that didn’t happen. After Heaven and Hell turned their backs on Aziraphale and Crowley, leaving them to their own devices for the very first time.

Everything seems possible now and yet the angel held on to his old patterns of behaviour. Afraid to let go and jump into the unknown.

Perhaps a leap of faith is exactly what he needs.

So he clears his throat and says, “Well, what if … what if there is actually some truth behind your observations?”

Rachel hesitates for a moment, probably giving the angel a chance to take it all back hastily, but when nothing of the sorts happens, she cautiously states, “Well, I guess that would be quite interesting.”

Aziraphale snorts. That sounds like the understatement of the millennium.

“It’s madness, isn’t it?” he wonders, the thoughts that have been whirling inside his head for such a long time finally finding an outlet. “To even consider … an  _ angel, _ smitten with a  _ demon. _ That’s the stuff of bad romance novels.” He scoffs. “But it’s not a thing that’s supposed to happen.”

Rachel chuckles at that, sounding like she thinks Aziraphale an adorable idiot. “So?” she wonders. “The end of the world was supposed to happen and look how that turned out. Thanks to you, I might add.”

Aziraphale pulls a face at the reminder. “We actually didn’t do much, beside being absolutely incompetent.”

“And yet you opposed Heaven and Hell,  _ together, _ to save humanity.”

Aziraphale starts to fidget. “I did it mainly for the sushi and crepes, I have to admit.”

“And for humanity and the bookshop. And for him.”

Aziraphale wants to object, but he finds himself incapable of doing so. Unfortunately she has a point here.

Yes, he did it for the humans and his own indulgences and his beloved books, but at the end of the day the mere possibility of never seeing Crowley again, of being ripped apart for good, was the one thing that tipped him over. He could’ve lost his friend, right in the fiery pits of the apocalypse, and it would have been absolutely final.

A truly terrifying thought.

“It’s not madness, Aziraphale,” Rachel insists. “For me it sounds like you’ve been defying your so-called fate for quite a while. You’re both the odd ones out.”

Aziraphale can’t really contradict her on that.

“You have much in common and you seem pretty fond of each other,” she adds. “It’s only a natural progression of things to … well, develop in such a direction, I guess.”

Aziraphale isn’t really sure what to think of that. “So you’re saying it’s been the circumstances?”

“Well, in a way  _ everything  _ is affected by circumstances, don’t you think?” Rachel says. “But I’m not implying the relationship between you and Crowley grew in such a way because you had no other options or whatever. No, seriously. Quite the contrary, I might even say. Considering how many opportunities you had to cop out, to reject your little arrangement, and yet it did happen.”

Aziraphale shoots another glance to the side, studies Crowley who at some point reached his arm out in the angel’s direction, as though desperate for Aziraphale’s closeness. He feels his chest constrict at the sight and sighs deeply.

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale reminds her eventually. “We’re designed to love. Therefore, whatever feelings I might have for Crowley --”

“Oh no, no, no, no!” Rachel cuts in straightaway, most likely shaking her head vigorously. “Don’t even start with that bullshit, honey. First of all, it’s totally different and you know it.”

“But —”

“Don’t tell me you feel about Crowley the same way you do about me. Or Clifford. Or a random person walking past you on the street.”

“ _ Of course _ it’s different —”

“There you have it.”

“But that doesn’t mean —”

“You want to be close to him like all the time?” Rachel interrupts him once more, apparently seriously not eager to hear his arguments. “You wanna see him smile, wanna hear him laugh? Touch him? Smell him? Share things with him, even the totally silly ones? You think about him at the most random times? And then you smile, all dopey?”

Aziraphale says nothing.

Because there’s no way in Heaven or Hell that he would be able to deny this.

“At least that’s the way I feel about Marcus,” Rachel points out, the smile in his voice evident as she thinks of her fiancé. “And I imagine it’s even worse for you, considering your unique history with Crowley.”

Aziraphale stays silent and wonders whether it seriously was such a good idea to start this conversation to begin with.

“And all that angels-are-designed-to-love crap …” Rachel snorts. “You really believe that? That all of this is simply your angelic nature and nothing else? Then what about all the stories you told me about those other angels? Gabriel and Michael and Sandalphon? They must be the same then, right?” Rachel laughs breathily. “So you’re telling me they love humanity the same way you do? That they love  _ Crowley  _ the same way you do?”

Oh dear Lord.

Aziraphale actually feels a little sick at the mere thought.

“No,  _ of course _ not.”

It’s absolutely absurd to even consider.

And also fairly disturbing.

“ _ There _ you have it,” Rachel emphasises yet again. “It doesn’t really matter that you’re an angel and he’s a demon. I mean, like I said, it didn’t even occur to me that Crowley might be one of Hell’s residents from your descriptions alone.”

She’s certainly not wrong here, Aziraphale has to admit. The fact that Crowley is a demon has actually stopped mattering a very long time ago.

Therefore it shouldn’t matter that Aziraphale is an angel either.

According to their Head Offices they have never been what they’re supposed to anyway. So why should it suddenly be crucial for what he’s feeling for Crowley?

“Maybe you’re right,” he concedes eventually.

Rachel’s following grin is audible through the phone connection. “I always am.”

Aziraphale can’t help an eye roll and finds himself wondering whether he’s getting along with her so well because she’s so similar to Crowley.

“Just accept that you really care for the guy,” Rachel adds. “I’m not saying you’re in love with him ‘cause that’s only for you to determine, but he’s clearly important to you.”

Aziraphale blushes at her words and once again finds no ground to contradict her.

“And it’s mutual,” she continues, her tone going soft. “I mean, I haven’t actually  _ seen  _ you two interacting together, for obvious reasons, but Crowley’s voice when he was talking to you --  _ ugh. _ That’s the good stuff, no doubt.”

That’s the problem, though.

Doubt.

Rachel might be convinced Crowley feels the same, but Aziraphale has a good portion of scepticism at his disposal. Things which piled themselves up for centuries, perhaps even millennia, if he’s being true to himself, and which are hard and maybe close to impossible to simply shake off and forget about.

Granted, Aziraphale knows that Crowley is quite fond of him — after all, he wouldn’t have proposed to run away together during the apocalypse if that weren’t the case to begin with — and that they’re close friends, for  _ way _ longer than just the last few weeks, however, that doesn’t necessarily implicate — 

It doesn’t mean … 

It just doesn’t … 

Because Aziraphale can’t afford beginning to hope …

It would crush him,  _ so painfully  _ — 

“Angel?”

Aziraphale flinches so hard he almost drops the phone in his hands and for a second he’s only able to focus on preventing his heart from jumping out of his chest. Admittedly, he’s pretty sure it would be anatomically improbable, but still you can’t be too careful.

“You alright there, angel?”

A very familiar hand suddenly squeezes Aziraphale’s knee gently in a reassuring gesture and the angel finally manages to turn his gaze toward the person next to him.

Crowley looks rumpled and flushes and so soft Aziraphale wants to pull him into his arms and never let go. Only the concern on the demon’s face — and the last bits of Aziraphale’s common sense and sanity — keep him from doing so.

Concern about the angel’s wellbeing.

Oh dear.

Did he notice Aziraphale’s inner turmoil? Did he  _ feel  _ it?

Is that what woke him up in the first place?

Aziraphale clears his throat and shoves all the wildly twirling thoughts in his mind into the background before replying, “Yes, I’m perfectly fine, my dear. Thank you.”

Crowley, however, merely frowns. “Have I gone deaf or did you do something?”

For a moment Aziraphale has no idea what the demon is even talking about, still feeling way too startled to think straight, but when Crowley points at his ears once again while raising his eyebrows in question Aziraphale suddenly remembers the miracle he used earlier.

With a quick wave of his hand he dissolves the bubble he put himself into and explains hastily, “Yes, sorry, dear. I was talking with Rachel and didn’t want to disturb your sleep with our nattering.”

A quick smile flickers over Crowley’s lips. “I see.”

For a moment he looks at Aziraphale, like he wants to add some more, but in the end he merely removes his hand from the angel’s knee and thankfully totally misses Aziraphale’s brief disappointed pout at the loss of contact.

“How long was I out?” Crowley wonders.

“I’m not sure.” Aziraphale creases his forehead, the concept of time completely lost on him since retreating to this little sanctuary in the middle of nowhere. “Maybe an hour, I think?”

Crowley lets out an incoherent noise at these news and tries to wiggle into a somewhat vertical position, but eventually, after a few failed attempts, merely rolls onto his stomach, in the process looking a lot like the serpent he truly is.

“Find anything interesting?” Crowley asks while ruffling through his messy hair, distracting the angel so thoroughly with that little gesture that Aziraphale stays speechless for way too long to appear natural.

“Um … what?” Aziraphale manages after a while, feeling awkward and stupid all at once.

Crowley, however, only smirks, as though Aziraphale’s flustering is the most amusing thing. “Anything interesting?” he repeats the question. “In your books? About the spell?”

Oh right.

The enchantment.

Aziraphale nearly forgot about that.

“Uh, well — not really, no,” he mutters, blinking nervously. “I mean, yes, it  _ is _ interesting — but not the kind that might help us with our problem … I — I mean,  _ we _ —”

He points at the phone and suddenly remembers that Rachel is still on the other end of the line. With a quick apologetic glance at the demon he brings the phone back to his ear and says, “Rachel? I gotta go.”

“Yeah, I figured.” She chuckles, most likely at the squeaky tone of his voice. “Should we finish our talk later?”

Aziraphale licks his lips and shoots another look at Crowley who seems way too busy letting his gaze wander around the premises to actually notice the emotions flickering over the angel’s features.

“Um, yes?” Aziraphale isn’t exactly sure what’s there left to say, but Rachel surely sounds like she has a lot more to add to the topic. “I guess — we could continue our conversation later. Thank you.”

After a quick goodbye Aziraphale offers the phone back to Crowley. Who instantly shakes his head and pushes it back into the angel’s hands.

“You need it more than me right now.”

It’s dumb to flush because of that since logically speaking it is more than true — after all, it’s currently his only connection to Rachel and her vast network of resources and witches —, but it doesn’t stop Aziraphale from doing it anyway.

Damn.

“How did you sleep?” he finds himself asking just a moment later, eager for some quick distraction.

Crowley merels shrugs his shoulders. “Fine, I guess. The pillows are comfy and I think I even dreamt a little — there was this hand —”

He rubs absently over the spot on his head where Aziraphale touched him before, apparently despite his deep slumber unconsciously aware of the contact, and this time Aziraphale’s blush is absolutely uncontrollable. He hastily lowers his gaze and shoves his nose into the book in his lap, hoping the demon might not see.

“Anyway, are you  _ really  _ okay?” Crowley quickly pans the subject of conversation elsewhere, like he’s just as uncomfortable thinking about his dreams as Aziraphale, and assesses the angel with an intense squint. “I believe I felt something before … were you upset?”

So he  _ seriously  _ woke up because Aziraphale projected his emotions outside.

Great.

On first instinct Aziraphale wants to lie, wants to tell him everything is perfectly alright, tickety-boo and whatnot, but the worry on Crowley’s features is back and Aziraphale just can’t bring himself to dismiss him like that.

“It … it was nothing,” he assures his friend nonetheless. “I just got a bit frustrated with the entire situation.”

There.

Technically not a lie.

Crowley, at least, instantly starts to nod in understanding. “I get it. But don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

His hand is back on Aziraphale’s knee. Only for a brief pat, but it makes the angel smile anyway.

And then the demon grabs one of the heavy books closeby and opens it. “I’ll even help. Not sure how much use I’m gonna be, but I’ll give it a try.”

Aziraphale simply frowns. “But you hate books.”

“I don’t  _ hate  _ books.” Thanks to a stream of sunlight hitting the demon quite in the right angle Aziraphale sees Crowley roll his eyes in an absolutely dramatic fashion behind his dark glasses. “I could never hate anything that you love.”

He sounds like the mere notion is completely ridiculous. 

“I’m just not that fond of most of them,” Crowley adds. “At least those brainy, semi-sophisticated,  _ I’m-so-much-smarter-than-your-sorry-arse _ pretentious ones.” He grimaces so hard Aziraphale can’t help a snicker. “But I’m gonna make an exception for you, angel.”

Easy as that, so it seems.

An exception.

Like it’s been most of their lives since they met.

Aziraphale offers him a warm smile in return, feeling blessed beyond words in this very moment, and just knows that indeed everything will turn out alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't actually planned like this at all.  
> Originally Rachel was just supposed to tease Aziraphale a little bit, but suddenly it got deeper and our angel just spilled his guts before I even knew what was happening 😝
> 
> I hope you didn't mind ;)


	12. Laundry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my friends!!
> 
> Here we are again :D
> 
> Once more I can't thank you enough for all the love and support you're showing this fic, you're seriously blowing my mind 🤩💗  
> You're just beyond awesome!
> 
> And so, without further ado, I wish you all the fun with the new chapter!
> 
> -

Crowley enjoys the quiet.

It’s peaceful, just the two of them scrolling through their books, the sound of the pages rustling and the occasional bird singing the only things breaking through the absolute silence.

No traffic noises, no cars honking impatiently, no people screaming on the streets about the stupidest stuff.

It’s just like back in the days before humanity grew so big and fast no respectable demon would’ve been able to keep up.

“It’s nice here,” he finds himself musing eventually.

Aziraphale blinks a few times, a clear indication that he at first has to finish the paragraph he’s currently reading before being ready to turn his attention elsewhere, his eyes flying over the page in front of him in record speed. Crowley waits patiently, already used to Aziraphale’s rapt focus, and just watches him for a moment, knowing perfectly well that he looks way too obvious in his annoyingly inconvenient admiration for that bastard angel, but having no idea how to stop.

Thankfully, as ever, Aziraphale doesn’t notice a thing beside the words written in the text in front of him and Crowley allows himself a minute of indulgence before schooling his features into something more subdued when the angel eventually does finish he passage and casts his gaze in the demon’s direction.

“What did you say, dear?”

Crowley can’t help a fond little smile. “I just said it’s nice here. Quiet.”

Aziraphale takes a look around, as though really studying their surroundings for the very first time, and his expression turns gentle just a second later.

“You’re right, it’s very nice.”

He hums quietly, probably not even realising he’s doing it.

“Could you …?” Crowley licks his lips, suddenly feeling a little nervous, but nonetheless determined to get it out in the open. “Could you imagine living in a place like this? Someday?”

_ With me, _ is left unsaid.

But it weighs heavy on Crowley’s chest.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale lifts his brows, apparently not prepared for the demon to ask such sort of a question. For a moment he stays silent as he takes his time to mull it over properly, like always putting so much thought into this as if Crowley asked the most important thing in the world.

“Well,” the angel says at least, tilting his head from one side to the other, “London did indeed get a bit crowded over the last few decades, didn’t it? At least it’s becoming harder and harder to shoo all the customers away.”

He pulls the corners of his mouth downwards, clearly bothered by that little tidbit the most.

“And it would be rather nice to have some peace and quiet again,” Aziraphale adds. “Especially after all that business with the apocalypse and whatnot. That one got rather messy and loud, didn’t it?”

He shudders at the memory and makes a tiny noise at the back of his throat.

“So yes, why not?” he eventually announces. “It would be quite lovely to live somewhere on the countryside for a change. We could get ourselves a sweet little cottage … of course my bookshop would have to move with me … and let’s not forget your plants …”

While he continues, apparently already imagining the outlines of their future home in great and enthusiastic detail, Crowley can’t help feeling all tingly inside at the fact that Aziraphale didn’t even hesitate to wonder whether the demon might join him in this endeavour. No, it seems the angel is even unable to fathom moving somewhere without Crowley by his side, like the mere possibility is so laughable you shouldn’t even bother to think about, and Crowley just sinks deeper into the pillows and hopes Aziraphale won’t spot the red tinge on his cheeks.

“Naturally it would mean not having the best restaurants in walking distance anymore,” Aziraphale, in the meantime, adds with a sigh. “And all those wonderful bakeries and cafés …”

He sounds so wistful that Crowley almost takes his hands and squeezes it in comforting.

“But on the other hand I assume you’d still have your car by then, right?” Aziraphale beams. “It shouldn’t take much effort to hop inside and pay The Ritz a quick visit, don’t you agree? Perhaps making a lovely, little day trip out of it …”

He keeps on rambling, about all the places they might visit together, getting more and more excited the longer he talks, his eyes shining brightly, and Crowley thanks the Almighty yet again that back then, six thousand years ago, he decided to approach the beautiful angel standing on the Garden’s wall instead of ignoring him, like he had done with so many of his kind before him.

Crowley can’t even remember what had driven him to do so -- maybe just loneliness and the sudden urge to talk to  _ someone, _ no matter who --, but he sure as hell is beyond grateful that he did.

Granted, his life might’ve been easier if they would’ve stayed in their respective roles, if they would’ve been adversaries and nothing more. Crowley could’ve been a proper little demon and do his job and not worry about the arrangement and Aziraphale’s safety all the bloody time.

But it also would have been a dull and empty existence.

And at the end of the, who would want that?

No, he’s perfectly happy to sit here, right in the middle of a world of pillows, and listen to his angel talk and talk and talk.

What on Earth, Above and Below could ever be better? 

 

\-----

 

Of course the quiet can’t last.

Just when Crowley starts to consider that they just should stay here, in the middle of nowhere, and forget about the love curse altogether, the sound of flapping wings jerks him out of his reverie and he sighs deeply as Imael suddenly pops up right beside them, his face contorted with so many emotions it’s actually nauseating to look at.

“My love --” he exclaims, his voice carrying so many fake feelings it’s almost doesn’t sound real at all.

“Imael,” Aziraphale greets him, appearing cool and far from happy to see the angel anywhere near him. “I already started to wonder if you might have disappeared.”

It’s clear Aziraphale would’ve prefered that outcome, but as always Imael’s mind is so clouded by the spell he doesn’t pick up on that.

“I would  _ never  _ leave you, beloved!” he announces loud enough that God Herself probably is just jolting awake from her afternoon nap. “The mere idea of leaving you behind is so atrocious --”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Aziraphale cuts in, waving him off impatiently. “I get it.” He grinds his teeth, looking even more annoyed than the whole time during the apocalypse. “Your dedication is really … um, lovely and stuff …”

Crowley can’t help an amused snort and grins right at Aziraphale when the angel instantly shoots him a dark look.

“Where have you been, mate?” Crowley wonders, despite himself really starting to grow kinda fond of Imael. Or at least the version the enchantment turns him into. “Trying to get out of research?”

For a moment Imael stares at him, most likely evaluating whether he should even deign to answer a demon of all creatures, and Crowley believes to see some spark of the actual angel behind the enchantment’s fog in his eyes, the servant of Heaven who would never even consider to associate with a being from Hell. But that tiny prick of his true personality quickly vanishes and instead he smiles at the best friend of his object of affection.

“I was getting rid of every last drop of Holy Water, just like you wished,” Imael explains, looking at Aziraphale for approval like a little puppy. “And then I punished the witches.”

Aziraphale’s head snaps up at those words. “You  _ punished  _ them?”

Imael shrugs his shoulders. “Well, they continued to beg for it. A little weird, I have to confess, but then again, I would do everything to get back into your good graces as well.”

For a long moment Aziraphale merely gapes at Imael, obviously thousand different thoughts rushing through his mind at the same time.

“Oh dear Lord,” he eventually groans. “You didn’t kill them, did you?”

Crowley first instinct is to laugh, because after everything they put him through that would be kinda splendid, but then he thinks of Rachel and how very much she doesn’t deserve to lose her parents, no matter their general bastard level, and the laughter gets stuck in his throat.

Thankfully, though, Imael waves Aziraphale’s concerns off right away. “Oh no, they’re not dead. They’re doing laundry.”

Aziraphale lifts his brows in disbelief and exchanges a quick glance with Crowley, clearly wondering whether he misheard Imael just as much as the demon.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale leans a little closer, “did you just say they’re doing  _ laundry _ ?”

Imael nods enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s right.”

Crowley scoffs at that. “Well, Heaven’s idea of penalty surely changed a lot.”

The last time he had to face their wrath (disguised as Aziraphale) he ended up in Hell fire, the flames licking his skin from top to bottom.

A little washing and folding is clearly a step down from that.

“Actually it was the butler’s suggestion,” Imael states with a big smirk on his boyish face. “The witches begged to be punished, to  _ feel  _ the suffering. For your sake, Aziraphale.” He throws a besotted look in Aziraphale’s direction, as though having your limbs ripped off or apparently doing laundry is the highpoint of romance. “The butler proposed I should force the witches to do housework because at the end of the day they would consider this the worst suffering humanity can even imagine.”

Crowley stares at Imael and actually finds himself not really surprised by that.

“And the humans surely have been moaning and groaning the whole time, probably even louder than the poor souls trapped in Hell, I might assume.” Imael appears highly amused by that. “Next on the list is cleaning the bathrooms. Those witches will pray I would’ve killed them when they had the chance.”

Crowley blinks.

Maybe they should try some of those suggestions in actual Hell as well for a change. Some of those uptight lawyer businessmen down there surely would think it absolutely inhumane beyond measure to scrub a few toilets.

(With their tongues, of course.) 

“Um … alright then,” Aziraphale says, apparently still not really certain what to think of that. “As long as they’re not harmed. Physically, at least.”

“Not a single scratch, my love,” Imael assures him. Then, however, his bright expression dims a bit, as he cautiously adds, “Though they have been complaining about dry skin due to the wet laundry, I have to confess. Should I heal them or call an ambulance for that?”

He appears like he’s seriously not sure whether this ultimately might lead to the witches’ death or not and Crowley would’ve almost called him adorable in his naivete. 

_ Damn, _ this whole enchantment thing is really getting out of hand.

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Aziraphale quickly reassures the other angel. “They will be fine. They’re clever enough to use some lotion if the situation calls for it.” He narrows his eyes pensively. “Maybe just go back inside and ask if you could help Rachel with the research? That would be a tremendous help, my friend.”

Imael beams hard at the little endearment and for a second there Crowley almost fears he would actually witness an angel bursting into tears sometime very soon. A picture he’s not very keen to see right in front of him.

But then a flicker of confusion flashes over Imael’s features and the moment -- thankfully -- is gone.

“Research?” he wonders. “Research about what?”

“Well, about the curse I’ve been carrying,” Aziraphale explains patiently. When the other angel’s puzzlement only seems to deepen, he adds, “Oh dear Lord, we’ve been discussing it with you standing right beside us. Didn’t you listen?”

Judging by Imael’s eye growing big as saucers at those words he clearly did not.

Crowley isn’t surprised, however. That angel’s way too busy admiring  _ everything  _ about Aziraphale to actually pay attention to anything else that is going on. It’s probably half a miracle that he’s lucid enough to perform the tasks Aziraphale orders him to do all on his own instead of losing his focus entirely as soon as he takes a step back from his beloved little bookshop owner.

“You’re  **_cursed_ ** ?!” Imael exclaims loudly, once again mercilessly jerking God out of Her dreams. “ _ What _ …  _ How  _ …  _ Why  _ …?”

Very good questions. Every single one of them.

Unfortunately they’re not closer to answer even a tiny bit of them.

“Are you  _ hurt _ ?” Imael weeps, his stupidly blue eyes actually filling with tears now as he throws himself onto the pillows right next to Aziraphale and grabs his hands in a tight grip so quickly Aziraphale doesn’t even have a chance to evade the unwelcome contact. “Are you harmed, my love? Are you in pain? Why didn’t you say anything sooner, I could’ve helped you. I would do  _ anything  _ to --”

“Yes, yes, I know!” Aziraphale cuts in with a growl, staring at their joined hands with a glare. He tries to wriggle out of the grasp, but Imael only squeezes harder and begins to whimper. “Your concern is really … um, appreciated. I guess.”

“But are you hurt, beloved?” Imael’s eyes roam all over Aziraphale’s body and only the fact that he looks solely distraught (and not anything else) keeps Crowley from punching him in the fact due to that intense scrutiny. “Do you need me to heal you? I would give my life for you --”

“Relax, mate,” Crowley interjects, rolling his eyes hard behind his sunglasses. “It’s only a love curse. No one is dying.”

Imael blinks and takes a really long time to wrap his head around these words.

“A …  _ love  _ curse?”

Crowley nods while Aziraphale ist still occupied with attempting to disentangle his fingers from the other angel. 

“Yeah,” the demons confirms. “So far everyone who laid eyes on our little Aziraphale here fell madly in love with him.”

Imael looks so dumbfounded for a moment Crowley honestly considers getting his phone out and shooting a picture of that expression for future use. 

“Wh- …” he mutters, still appearing absolutely overwhelmed by everything. “ _ Everyone _ ?”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders. “More or less, yes.”

Suddenly Imael’s face darkens noticeably. “Even  _ you _ ?”

The abrupt venom and jealousy in his voice actually sends a cold shiver down Crowley’s spine and he finds himself flinching involuntarily.

“Oh no, the curse doesn’t work on demons,” Aziraphale pipes in, a smile growing on his face as he finally manages to free his hands thanks to Imael’s momentarily distraction. “He’s completely unaffected.”

Crowley grimaces at that very wrong statement, but once again refrains from correcting the angel. It’s clearly better for everyone involved if Aziraphale continues to believe this.

“So … it doesn’t work on demons?” Imael wonders, his face already softening as he realises Crowley is not a competitor for Aziraphale’s heart. “Well, alright then, that’s not exactly astonishing considering their vile nature, of course …”

Aziraphale looks thoroughly offended all of a sudden. “This has  _ nothing  _ to do with this,” he hisses. “That’s just Heaven propaganda and you seriously shouldn’t listen to it, Imael. Crowley is a very nice individual, deep down, more caring that most of Heaven, actually, and I won’t stand --”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts, his tone gentle as he leans closer to Aziraphale and puts a reassuring hand on his arm. “Give him a break, his brain is mush right now.”

Aziraphale releases a breath, apparently quite pumped up to defend Crowley’s honour with all his powers, no matter what. “But I don’t like angels talking about you like that,” he whispers back, sounding petulant. “I don’t like  _ anyone  _ talking about you like that.”

Crowley feels something warm spreading within his chest and it takes all his willpower not to dive in and pull the angel into a tight embrace.

“I know, angel,” he breathes. “But it’s fine.”

“It’s  _ not _ \--”

“The poor fella is under a very strong curse,” Crowley reminds him. “Don’t take what he’s saying too hard.”

“But --”

“Come on, leave it be.” Crowley tightens his grip and contrary to Imael before Aziraphale actually leans into the touch instead of trying to escape it. “You can lecture him properly as soon as he’ll be in his right mind again. That way you can make sure it’s gonna stuck.”

He’s not sure the real Imael might actually take it to heart, but at least Aziraphale’s words won’t drown in an ocean of a spell-infused mess.

Aziraphale still appears on the edge for a minute, as though despite Crowley’s flawless logic he just can’t stand by and listen to people spreading lies or half-truths about his friend, but eventually he sighs deeply, apparently resigning for now.

“Fine, you’re right,” he concedes. “I should save my breath.”

Crowley smirks and pats his arm one last time before pulling back again. “Good boy.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but shoots him a fond glance anyway.

Meanwhile, Imael started to look back and forth between them, obviously having a very hard time catching up to any of this.

“But -- who would do such a thing?” he asks eventually, his voice shaking with too many emotions he has no clue how to handle. “Who would curse you, my love?”

“We don’t know yet --”

“You’re pure and innocent and so absolutely perfect, it seems so illogical that anyone would wish you any harm --”

“We’re not even sure if there was really a bad intent or if it was merely some sort of accident --”

“My poor sweetheart -- the ordeal you must have been going through …”

He reaches for Aziraphale’s hands again, but the angel hastily pulls them away and mumbles a quick, “It’s fine, Imael, really,” as he begins to squirm uncomfortably.

“But I want to help you,” Imael announces, anguish written all over his features. “Would you like me to recite a little love poem --?”

Aziraphale grimaces hard. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Maybe some Heavenly harmonies might make you feel better --”

“That’s  _ definitely  _ not necessary!”

“But --”

Aziraphale sighs heavily. “How about you just help out with our research? That way we might actually find the culprit.”

Imael stays silent for a while, merely staring at them with an expression that is so intense Crowley actually starts to feel cold all over, before at last taking a deep breath.

“You thought these witches did this to you, right?” he concludes. His brain might be overall pretty useless, but apparently there is just enough left to pick up a few things here and there.

(Though it’s not like Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t discuss that very matter with Rachel while Imael was standing more or less right beside them, so Crowley surely won’t give him any brownie points for that.)

“Yes, we did,” Aziraphale agrees, subtly scooting a little back from the other angel, probably afraid he might try to initiate contact yet again in his emotional turmoil. “But our assumption turned out wrong, so we’re back to square one.”

Imael, however, frowns in confusion. “But it’s obvious, isn’t it?” he wonders. “It’s Hell.”

Aziraphale lifts his eyebrows.

“Well, we can’t know for sure --”

“But  _ of course _ it’s Hell,” Imael says with the conviction of a being who has never learned anything else. “It takes tremendous power to curse an angel. Who else would have the skill set but Hell?”

Crowley hates to admit that he does have a point here.

Aziraphale, though, doesn’t seem inclined to just give in.

“Hell is on our list of suspects, yes,” he confirms reluctantly. “But so are other creatures. Earth is populated by a lot of powerful beings, you really shouldn’t underestimate their influence --”

“Does any of them have a reason to curse you?” Imael asks the very question that makes Aziraphale shut his mouth instantly. “Hell, however, has been our enemy since the dawn of time itself. And with you helping to stop the apocalypse and being cut off of Heaven, making you an easy target in the process, they would have every reason to use their chances.”

Huh.

Look at that.

Despite everything the guy actually  _ is _ capable of producing a coherent thought.

Astonishing.

But then suddenly Imael’s dark glare lands on Crowley and he looks more than ready to rip some heads off. “ _ Hell _ is our enemy!”

Oh my.

That again.

Crowley hurries to raise his hands in surrender because he seriously doesn’t want a young, well-trained, and righteously angry angel jumping his throat anytime soon. He’s never been much for battling and fighting and he’s not fairly keen on starting right now.

“This is  _ not  _ my fault, mate!” Crowley states with emphasis. “I’d never harm Aziraphale!”

Imael, though, narrows his eyes, distrust flickering up in his gaze. “How can we be sure you’re not lying?”

Damn.

Rude much?

Crowley feels Aziraphale bristling right beside him, most likely already preparing himself to get back at Imael with everything he’s got (and that’s quite a lot), but Crowley quickly places his hand on his wrist and silently asks him for a cool head. Getting impulsive right now might not be the wisest choice.

“I’ve known Aziraphale for six thousand years now,” Crowley explains, trying for a calm and level tone. “If I had  _ ever  _ meant to harm him, why the bloody hell would I wait that long to begin with?”

Imael grits his teeth. “Hell’s orders --”

Crowley snorts at that. “I barely did anything Hell told me to do back when I was actually their fucking employee. Why would I start now?” He shakes his head. “Remember, I actually  _ helped  _ to stop the apocalypse? Right at Aziraphale’s side. Against Hell’s wishes.”

Imael begins to hesitate now, his muddled brain apparently making some sense out of Crowley’s words.

“The last time I was down there they put me on trial and tried to execute me,” Crowley adds. “Hell and I, we’re over. Ancient history. And the feeling is very mutual.”

It feels good to say it out loud.

Freeing.

In the corners of his eyes he notices Aziraphale smiling softly at him, as if those words are the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

And in a way they totally are.

“But … Hell …” Imael blinks, clearly on the edge of a large headache now.

“Perhaps Hell is really responsible for this,” Crowley agrees. “Maybe it was a huge decision by the Head Office itself or maybe just a rogue demon working on their own. Narek, possibly. Fuck, maybe even bloody Hastur himself. Who knows?”

At least every single one of them would be pissed off enough to do something stupid.

“Or perhaps Hell is not involved at all,” Crowley points out. “Don’t forget, they’re an unimaginative bunch of arseholes. Spreading love like that is actually not their usual style.”

For a moment Imael seems to have some major issues juggling Crowley’s logic with his indoctrinated hatred for Hell, and at some point his face gets so red the demon can’t help wondering whether his head is about to explode, but in the end Aziraphale takes pity on him and rests a hand on the young angel’s shoulder.

It’s the first time he ever initiated contact between them and that fact alone apparently is more than enough to snap Imael out of his inner turmoil and make him beam like a bloody Christmas tree again. His lovestruck gaze settles solely on Aziraphale and Crowley would’ve been surprised if the poor guy could even remember half of the things they had just discussed.

“Your enthusiasm is truly … uh, nice,” Aziraphale says, with a crooked smile on his face that is probably meant to appear soothing but actually looks all kinds of awkward. Imael, however, doesn’t seem to mind as he leans closer eagerly. “And your help and suggestions are surely welcome, my friend. But how about we try to keep it rational and analyse our options first before declaring war against Hell? I don’t want anyone ending up getting hurt only because we lost our heads.”

Imael seriously purrs at that. “You’re so considerate about all our well-beings, my love …”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale shrugs him off fast. “How about you go inside and work with Rachel? Your vast knowledge might be of enormous help. And unfortunately I can’t be in the same room with her because she would automatically fall victim to the spell as soon as she’d look at me, and Crowley is unable to enter the house without triggering all the anti-demon traps.”

Imael grins brightly. “So I’d be your messenger?”

Aziraphale nods. “The most important one.”

Imael makes a happy noise before leaping to his feet in the blink of an eye. “I won’t disappoint you, my love.”

And then he rushes off, his huge wings flapping excitedly in the wind.

Crowley watches his back, even keeps staring long after Imael vanished behind some bushes, out of the demon’s sight, and feels something painful settle in his stomach.

“I don’t like this,” he grumbles. “That idiot will get us in trouble.”

Aziraphale’s already turned his attention back to his books, apparently not at all bothered by the things that just happened here. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s harmless.”

“He’s an  _ angel _ ,” Crowley reminds him. “Angels are never harmless.”

Aziraphale rises his brows in a clear challenge. “Like me?”

“You’re the most dangerous of them all.”

For a lot of reasons Crowley will never  _ ever  _ elaborate.

_ Ever. _

“But mark my words!” Crowley insists. “That Imael moron -- he might become a problem rather sooner than later.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “He’s barely realising what’s going on. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even get that he is under the love spell as well. What could he do in such a condition?”

“Get us into trouble.”

Aziraphale appears more amused than concerned as he graciously offers, “Alright, if that ever happens, you’re welcome to tell me ‘I told you so’. Happy?”

Crowley merely glares and mutters some curses underneath his breath before discreetly shooting a quick text message to Rachel to keep an eye on the young angel.

Granted, Crowley honestly might just be getting a bit paranoid here. After all, Imael is so chained by that enchantment he won’t go on any big adventures anytime soon. He can barely think straight as it is.

But at the same time Crowley’s always trusted his gut feeling.

And it’s never a bad idea to be extra careful.

Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Imael be the trouble Crowley expects him to be?  
> Will the Salinger witches die because of their dried-out skin?  
> And will Aziraphale finally get his lemon tarts?
> 
> Get your answers in the next chapter 😂


	13. Dumbass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, fellas, I'm back!
> 
> *throws confetti into the air*
> 
> After lots of work and my laptop eventually making so much trouble it took me FOREVER to type even one single sentence I finally managed to wrap this chapter up 🤗
> 
> Have fun!
> 
> -

“Oh _dear_ , I love you!”

Aziraphale’s sudden outburst comes so unexpected and out of the blue Crowley nearly falls off the huge pile of pillows he’s been lying on for the last half hour in a very embarrassing manner. Instead he manages to scramble into a somewhat dignified position – accompanied by a little yelp and some askew sunglasses – and stares at the angel with wide eyes, for a second seriously thinking those words were honestly meant for him.

But then he notices Clifford and, more importantly, a huge tray full of lemon tarts approaching them and Crowley realises his mistake right away. Thankfully Aziraphale is way too busy gazing at the butler with a dreamy expression all over his face to notice the demon next to him blushing.

“Oh my …” Aziraphale leaps to his feet, suddenly all elegance and speed when it’s about food, and rushes over to greet Clifford excitedly. “Look at that – those tarts look _magnificent_. You’re a true magician.”

The curse most likely tries to persuade Clifford to bask at his beloved angel’s attention, but apart from a twitching eyebrow there’s nothing to be seen on the outside. On the contrary, he looks at Aziraphale as though he is a dirty fly that has the audacity to breathe on his precious baked goods.

Nonetheless he puts the tray on a nearby stack of books, using it as a makeshift table in the process, and Aziraphale is so besotted by that display of pastries he doesn't even protest about this blatant misuse of old literature. He only sighs and looks at the tarts like a man deeply and irrevocably in love.

“You've outdone yourself,” he coos at the butler. “I mean, your biscuits already were absolutely stunning, but _this_ …?”

His expression gets even softer, apparently on the verge of proposing to Clifford and never letting him out of his sight ever again.

Crowley merely groans and hates that he feels a pang of jealousy despite this being a truly ridiculous situation.

Clifford, meanwhile, seems to struggle hard with the enchantment. The spell most likely wants him to drop to his knees and cry his feelings for Aziraphale out into the world, but the remaining part of his emotionless personality is clearly affronted by even the mere idea. So eventually he ends up scowling, looking like a man with severe indigestion, and even an ancient entity like Crowley can't say if he's thinking about kissing Aziraphale or ripping his head off for being the very reason for his fairly obnoxious emotions.

Aziraphale, of course, doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary. He only keeps rambling and gushing, so focused on the lemon tarts in front of him he surely would've missed a second apocalypse suddenly coming their way. Crowley wants to channel his inner demon at the sight and roll his eyes in annoyance, but the scene is so much _Aziraphale_ it's kinda hard to not let a fond smile slip over his features.

_Damned_ angel.

Thankfully Clifford provides him with a much needed distraction as he abruptly turns towards the demon – apparently still rather reluctantly since the spell seems eager to make him focus his entire attention on Aziraphale alone and probably recite some sonnets along the way, but nonetheless he fights for it and eventually wins in the end. “Miss Rachel asked me to tell you she would like to have a word with you whenever it would be most convenient.”

Crowley shoots a glance at Aziraphale, who just took the first bite of one of the tarts and actually started to _moan_ rather obscenely, and decides that it is indeed _right now_ a fairly convenient time to not be around the angel.

So he withdraws into the background, pulls his mobile out and dials Rachel's number.

She picks up instantly and greets him with an enthusiastic, “Hey, my friend, how are things in your crisis centre?”

Crowley can't help a snort. “The lemon tarts just arrived.”

“I see.” She chuckles. “I guess Aziraphale will be quite busy for a while then?”

The poor girl has _no_ idea.

Such an innocent soul.

“We will be lucky if Aziraphale only spends about thirty-seven hours enjoying and savouring those pastries,” Crowley explains with a sigh. “I mean, we are eternal beings and everything, but once in a while he seriously gets lost when food is involved.”

Not that, in the back of his very private mind, Crowley actually minds that much to sit around in Aziraphale's company for hours and watch him eat in slow motion. Sure, he complains about it frequently and puts a lot of effort into his annoyed eye-rolls and disgruntled scowls, but secretly he can't imagine anything better than staring at the angel all day.

“So he's holding up alright?” Rachel asks.

Crowley throws another look at the pavilion. Right now Aziraphale appears happy and giddy and for a while this will be more than enough to distract him from the whole situation, but rather sooner than later reality will crush down on him again. Harsh and cruel. Without any mercy.

Crowley surely doesn't look forward to it.

So he ignores the question and wonders instead, “Why did you need me to call? Find something interesting? Even groundbreaking maybe?”

He highly doubts it, otherwise she would've instantly ringed every alarm bell instead of letting Clifford rely a message, but right now any news are better than no news at all.

“Well,” she says, sounding a little tentative now, “nothing of that magnitude, no. I just … well, I need to ask you something. Something … a bit personal, I guess.”

Crowley frowns. “Personal?”

“Aziraphale can't hear us, right?” she wonders and as soon as those words reach Crowley's ear he hurries to pull up a quick miracle and tune the angel out the same way he did before to not disturb Crowley's nap. He has no idea what she is hinting at, but he gets the feeling he can't let Aziraphale overhear under any circumstances.

“What is it?”

Rachel pauses for a moment, obviously mulling over how to phrase her question best, and eventually settles on a blunt, “Are you _really_ completely unaffected by the spell or are you just a bloody liar?”

Crowley blinks.

Blinks some more.

And glances quickly at Aziraphale in the distance to make sure he seriously didn't hear any of this before answering, absolutely eloquently, “Wh- … why … um …”

Yeah, so much for smoothness.

“Because I think it's the latter,” Rachel continues, sounding inappropriately chipper now. “But I would like some confirmation first.”

Crowley presses his lips into a thin line and curses his entire existence.

“Why – uh –” He begins to fidget awkwardly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it's important for my research.”

Crowley glares at the Salinger mansion in the far distance, hoping that she might somehow sense his mighty disapproval. “I thought it doesn't matter if demons might feel the effects or not.”

“I thought so too.”

He grumbles. “Then what changed?”

“Well, for starters, over the last couple of hours I became quite the expert on love enchantments,” Rachel tells him patiently. “I believed to be well educated in that field before, but _damn_ , have I've been wrong. Like seriously, the stuff I learnt so far …”

Crowley grimaces hard as he realises where this is going. “So, let me guess, you found some ancient passage about a long-dead demon falling victim to such a spell and now you really need all the information available to know for sure whether you can rule out that specific enchantment or not?”

He growls and hates his life some more.

What did he do to deserve this?

“Yeah, pretty much,” Rachel agrees. “I actually found a few where demons were somehow present. Still very rare cases overall, but I guess this is quite the rare situation we're having here, so …”

She trails off, apparently expecting Crowley to just throw the truth at her like it's not a big deal. Like they're talking about something stupid and mundane like the weather or politics instead of Crowley's damned _feelings_.

Ugh.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale again – because how can he not, at least once every thirty seconds, at least? – just as the angel decided to turn his attention to the demon as well. Aziraphale smiles brightly when their gazes meet and waves at his friend in such a dorky way Crowley feels his dumb heart actually melt at the sight.

_Bloody hell_ , he's such a hopeless mess for the angel.

“So, yes or no?” Rachel prods, appearing way too eager for Crowley's taste. “I promise I won't tell Aziraphale a thing, no matter what you're gonna say.”

This might not be so easy if one of those notes she found really would contain an answer to their current problem – which, considering Crowley's lack of luck might not be surprising in the slightest. Secrets would be revealed, things left unsaid for millennia would be spoken out loud, and their relationship would be changed forever.

Crowley seriously just wants to keep his mouth shut and call it a day.

But unfortunately he just can't withhold information and risk Aziraphale staying that way for all eternity.

It's awful and uncomfortable and all kinds of horrible, however, the thought of his angel having to endure a lifetime of misery only because Crowley couldn't be honest for a minute there is even more unbearable.

So he sighs and confesses, “Yes, the spell has an effect on me.”

Rachel stays silent for a moment, probably waiting for the demon to elaborate, and when that doesn't happen, continues to ask, “So, what dimensions are we talking about? Do you feel it a little bit or …?”

Crowley is pretty sure she would've poked him with her fingers impatiently if she would've been next to him right now.

Nosy humans.

“No, not just a little bit,” he admits, biting his bottom lip until it's painful. “I mean, there's no scale to measure it all, of course, but … I'm pretty sure I'm getting the full package, just like the rest of them.”

Rachel makes a quiet humming noise, like she seriously didn't expect anything else. “And you think you're reacting differently like the rest because you're a demon …?”

Again, she sounds like she already knows the answer, but wants Crowley to confess to same grand emotions anyway.

She certainly can count herself lucky that she's currently sitting in a demon-warded house, far away from Crowley's grasp, because she's walking on dangerously thin ice right now.

And she probably knows that very well, that smug girl.

“Oh, don't play cute,” Crowley hisses into the phone. “You're quite aware that me acting differently than anyone else has _nothing_ to do with my demon-ness, so don't pretend to be clueless. It doesn't suit you.”

Rachel scoffs. “The only thing I know is that you're a dumbass.”

“Now _wait_ a minute –”

“And Aziraphale is a dumbass, too,” she adds. “You're both dumb and blind and I'm actually shocked you managed to survive that long.”

Crowley really wants to argue her point, but if he's being honest with himself he wondered about the exact same thing many times before as well. So he stays quiet to at least not grant her any validation.

“You should really talk to Aziraphale –”

“Oh yes, what a _marvellous_ idea!” Crowley cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Should I get in line with all the other morons who are keen on proposing marriage to him?”

Rachel snorts. “I didn't mean _now_. That would be absolutely horrible timing.”

The understatement of the millennium, that's for sure.

“But afterwards …” Rachel adds, her voice a bit softer now. “You should tell him. What do you have to lose?”

“Well, _Aziraphale_ , for starters –”

“You _honestly_ think he would quit your friendship over this?” It's actually audible over her phone how she shakes her head in disbelief. “You know the guy even better than I do. That _really_ sound like Aziraphale to you?”

Well, of course not. Crowley has no real idea how the angel might react, considering they've never been in such a situation before, but there is no doubt in his mind that Aziraphale would never push him away over this.

“And perhaps Aziraphale's answer will surprise you,” Rachel says, a weird hitch in her tone now. “After all, you can't know for sure until you _talk_ about it. It's not that hard.”

Crowley glances at Aziraphale, at the way he tries to charm Clifford – most likely to coax the recipe for those lemon tarts out of him – and utterly fails in his endeavour, even despite that spell working with him for a change here, and Crowley just _longs_.

Longs for something different. Longs for something more.

But at the end of the day it's just a pipe dream. Aziraphale is an angel, Crowley is a demon, and the odds have been against them from the very beginning.

“How about you concentrate on those love curses and leave the big-boy stuff to the immortal entities?” Crowley growls. “We know what we're doing.”

Rachel snorts as though that's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard. “You _clearly_ don't –”

“I didn't outlive eternities to end up being berated by a tiny human,” Crowley grumbles. “You _do_ remember I'm a demon, right? The Serpent of Eden, to be exact. You really shouldn't mess with me.”

Rachel stays quiet for a moment, probably taking her time to digest this new information. “You're _seriously_ the Serpent of Eden?”

Crowley can't help a smirk at the low awe in her tone. “Yep.”

“Wow …”

“I know.”

“So your eyes –”

“Not just decoration.”

“And Aziraphale –”

“Guardian of the Eastern Gate. That's where we met, actually. The Garden, I mean.”

Rachel chuckles at that. “ _That_ he told me,” she assures the demon. “In very great detail. He only forgot the serpent part. And all that getting humanity kicked out of Paradise bit.”

Typical.

Aziraphale always fails to mention the juicy stuff.

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Rachel adds, a sarcastic note swinging in her voice now. “Would have hated to live in Paradise and all that.”

“I bet you would have,” Crowley immediately agrees. “Perfection. Sunshine. Boredom. No entertainment. Shoot me now.”

“Sounds like a weekend at my grandparents',” Rachel says amused. “So yeah, thanks for getting us out of Paradise.”

“You're welcome.”

“But it still doesn't change the fact that you're a dumbass.”

And here they are again.

“It also doesn't change the fact that I'm a dangerous and cunning demon, my little lamb. Creature of Hell and everything.”

“Didn't Hell throw you out for un-demonic behaviour?” suddenly another voice right next to him pipes up.

Crowley scoffs, his defence instincts kicking in real hard straight away, more than ready to make his point and present himself as the wicked creature he is. Because at the end of the day he can't just let a bunch of humans get away with calling him names, right?

But just when he opens his mouth, eager to defend his bloody honour, he pauses again, confusion filling his senses as he turns towards the person standing right next to him.

It's not Aziraphale.

And it's not Clifford or Imael or one of the Salinger witches or whoever else you might expect showing up on this very private property.

Crowley stares at the mop of curly hair, at the bright eyes looking right back at him, and for a moment he seriously believes he accidentally travelled back in time.

He frowns. With all the power invested in him.

Because this … well, he certainly didn't see that coming.

“Antichrist,” he greets the newcomer, his voice astonishingly calm despite his brain actually screaming, the cries ringing in his ears.

The boy – the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness – pulls a face at the demon. “It's Adam.”

“I remember.”

Oh _boy_ , does Crowley remember. He might be terrible with names more often than not, but this one managed to get stuck in his head.

(Well, admittedly, after a few reminders, but in the end it stayed put.)

And now they're standing here, weeks after the apocalypse didn't happen, simply looking at each other and probably wondering where in their lives they went wrong.

“Um … hello,” Crowley eventually says, feeling stupid and awkward as he begins to fidget. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I,” Adam answers.

He looks the same. Like a regular kid, one minute keen to play hide-and-seek in the woods and the next eager to jump on his bike and face the Four Horsemen. Only to be home in time for dinner.

After all, you can't be late for a good dinner, right?

Crowley stares at Adam, at the boy he didn't anticipate to meet in the middle of nowhere of all things, and has no idea what to even think. For a moment he entertains the thought that Hell sent him somehow to make Crowley's life miserable again, but Adam still seems bright and innocent and at the end of the day Hell would rather bite its own arse than deal with that insolent brat ever again.

So that leaves …

… well, Crowley has no bloody clue.

“What _the hell_ are you doing here?” he growls, trying for intimidating but sounding so baffled and squeaky instead the effect gets totally lost.

Adam, meanwhile, merely tilts his head and studies the demon for a long while. Silently. Thoroughly. _Way_ too intensely.

And then he announces, “I heard about a love spell.”

Of course.

Crowley decides then and there that he _really_ needs a brand new life because the one he currently has – it sucks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This cliffhanger is my early Christmas present for you!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it -- no refunds 😜


	14. About Hollywood and Meatloaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my friends!
> 
> I wish you all a Happy New Year and I hope you had amazing holidays 🤗
> 
> Mine unfortunately weren't that great (a nasty tooth infection right on time for Christmas [which eventually led to the demise of said tooth], lots of pain and meds), but thankfully I'm painfree again and finally had the energy to wrap this chapter up!
> 
> I wish you lots of fun with it 😊
> 
> -

“You _heard_ about a love spell??”

Crowley rubs his temples and for the first time in all of his life he feels a headache coming his way without any alcohol involved.

What has his life come to?

“What does that mean?” he growls, frustration gripping him tightly. “You heard about it on the streets or something?”

Adam tilts his head. “Well …”

“Oh Heaven and Hell, you've got something to do with all of this, haven't you?” Crowley sighs deeply and closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself to the best of his abilities. Which is not much, to be honest. “I should've known. I should've _bloody known_.”

“Crowley –”

“Wassss it you?” the demon hisses, jabbing his finger into the boy's chest. “Rachel mentioned someone powerful is responsible for this stupid spell and for like a second I seriously entertained the thought that _you_ , the bloody Antichrist – but then I said to myself, no, why would that little baby do such a thing? It wouldn't make _any_ sense.” 

He glares at Adam, not at all caring that his sunglasses are covering his eyes. The boy will _feel_ it nonetheless.

“Was I wrong?” Crowley groans. “Was I wrong to exclude you from our suspect list?”

Adam frowns, appearing not pleased at all. “Well, first of all, you _are_ wrong,” he points out and just when Crowley is about to open his mouth he adds, “I am _not_ a little baby!”

Crowley scoffs.

Small humans and their big personalities.

“And _second_ , I don't even know what's really going on!” Adam states, his pout so fierce Crowley's demonic instincts scream at him to take a few steps back. Or, even better, flee the country. “I'm here and I don't want to be here – I mean, my Mum made meatloaf, you know? She isn't the greatest cook in the world, but her meatloaf is a legend and I'm missing it because of _this_!” He flails his arms around while Crowley's very being tries to force him to escape into the next universe. “I mean, where even am I?”

Crowley lifts his brows and studies the boy for a moment, the myriad of emotions lighting up on his youthful face like Christmas candles.

“London,” he eventually explains.

Adam doesn't appear thrilled by that information. “ _London_?” he asks, a sharp edge in his voice. “What the hell am I doing in London of all things?”

“Well, that's what I wanted to know, too –”

“I can't be in London!” Adam continues, obviously on a roll now and not at all inclined to pay any attention to the demon beside him. “I'm not even allowed to be past Baker Alley.”

Crowley has honestly no idea how to reply to this.

Thankfully Adam doesn't seem to expect any answers as he keeps ranting, “I was just at home and minding my own business and now I'm here and there is _you_ and _him_ and –” He groans. “Is this another apocalypse? Because a love spell kinda sounds like an apocalypse and I actually don't have time for that. Did I mention the meatloaf?”

Crowley blinks a few times.

He almost forgot how weird and irrational children can get and once again he finds himself seriously wondering why humans even decide to reproduce on purpose. Is a mix of bad mushrooms and mass hallucinations?

“Can I just go home?” Adam sighs so deeply as though the fate of the world rests on his shoulders. Again.

“I don't even know why you're here in the first place,” Crowley growls.

“Well, I'm not here by choice!”

“Then how –?”

“Adam?”

Hearing Aziraphale's voice suddenly so close to his ears makes Crowley flinch in a very embarrassing manner and only the fact that both angel and Antichrist are way too busy to stare at each other – one in bafflement, the other one in frustration – saves him from having them notice the blush showing up on his cheeks.

“Adam, dear boy, what are you doing here?” Aziraphale gapes at the newcomer with wide eyes, assessing him from top to bottom as if he expects the little fella to explode any second now.

(And to be fair, the last time they saw each other Adam faced both the Horsemen and Lucifer himself without even twitching his eyebrows, so him going up into flames or something out of the blue certainly wouldn't be out of character.)

“I thought I'd pay you a little visit,” Adam says, shrugging.

Aziraphale raises a brow. “Really?”

Bless his sometimes stupid heart.

“No, of course not,” Adam objects, rolling his eyes so hard it's almost a miracle they don't pop out. “I'm here because of a love spell. Apparently.”

Aziraphale blinks at him, highly confused, and opens and closes his mouth several times in a row, obviously unable to form any coherent words. Eventually, though, he just gives up and turns towards Crowley instead.

“Why is the boy here?” he asks. “Is this your doing somehow?”

“Yes, _of course_ ,” Crowley answers, with so much sarcasm swinging in his voice not even the densest of angels could have missed it. “I thought since children are not affected by love enchantments it would be nice for you to have some other non-brainwashed company than me. And who could be better than the Antichrist himself?”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes, clearly picking up the strong mocking note in the demon's tone, but yet still somehow considering whether Crowley's statement actually might be true nonetheless.

“Well …”

Crowley merely grunts. “Come on, angel. Do you seriously think I got into the habit of collecting Satan's kids for a lovely afternoon picnic?” He snorts loudly. “That's not my style.”

Aziraphale looks far from pleased about Crowley's attitude. “Then how –?”

“I was just in the process of figuring that out myself.”

He glances back at Adam who started to look back and forth between them, an odd expression on his face as he seems busy wondering if he somehow landed in an alternative reality or some fairly weird dream.

“So how about an explanation then?” Crowley nudges him. “Why are you here, little human?”

The only thing he gets is a scowl in return. “My name is Adam, dude. Remember?”

Crowley, however, grimaces and begs the universe once again to tell him what he did wrong to deserve such a punishment. “Don't call me 'dude'. Like _ever_.”

Not even ironically.

Not even the mere thought is supposed to cross anyone's mind.

“You should stop watching so much American television,” Crowley strongly suggests. “Trust me, it's not good for you. I should know, I invented it back then to torture humanity. Big success for Hell and everything.”

Aziraphale next to him makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “You had no hands in Hollywood whatsoever. You merely lied on your report to Hell.”

Crowley pulls a face. Spoilsport.

“Fine, the humans beat me to it. _Again_.” He snorts loudly. “It's not my fault they're so eager to make each other miserable.”

Crowley oftentimes had a hard time keeping up with them. Sometimes you couldn't even afford to take a quick nap without humans cooking up something else to see themselves and their fellow men suffer.

“My point still stands, though,” he says. “American TV does bad things to you, like suddenly starting to call earnest and hard-working people 'dude', and seriously no one deserves that. Not even me.”

Adam only stares at him like Crowley totally lost his mind.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, just sighs deeply, clearly not happy by the distraction. “How about we get back on track?” he suggests, an edge in his voice. “I'd rather have worked this out by dinner time. Clifford promised me a culinary surprise and I can't miss that because no one is able to answer a simple question.”

Yeah, keeping Aziraphale away from food could actually end up fatal. Crowley never dared to mess with it, even back when their relationship was rocky at best and the arrangement hadn't even been an idea. Aziraphale would go on a bloody warpath for some spilled ice cream, not distinguishing between friends and enemies, and Crowley would do about anything to never witness that.

So he turns back to Adam and asks, for the twentieth time in the last two minutes, “What are you doing here, Antichrist?”

Adam scowls, apparently on the verge of correcting Crowley's name giving skills once more, but after a quick glance at Aziraphale his shoulder sag. “Like I said, I'm not here by choice,” he explains. “I was just at home, in Tadfield, eating my mum's meatloaf, when that angel appeared and kidnapped me.”

Crowley and Aziraphale blink in unison.

“Angel?” Crowley wonders, after a moment of stunned silence. “What angel?”

Adam merely shrugs. “I dunno, he didn't tell me his name,” he says. “No manners, that one. He just said that I'm a _'culprit'_ in _'poisoning his beloved Aziraphale with a wicked love spell'_ and then he just grabbed me and the next thing I know I was here. Then he went off again straight away, leaving me all alone, and I started wandering around until I spotted you guys.”

Crowley and Aziraphale blink in unison once more.

And then they grind their teeth.

“Do you think …?”

“Oh _yes_!”

“But why –?”

“I told you he'd be trouble, angel!”

Crowley stares at the phone in his hands and remembers he's still connected with Rachel. He doesn't waste any time to press the device back to his ear and hiss, “Didn't I tell you to keep an eye on Imael?”

There's some shuffling on the other end on the line, like some papers being moved, before eventually a loud scoff echoes through the phone. “Yeah, you did.”

“And?” Crowley urges. “Where is he?”

“No idea.”

Crowley feels like an important blood vessel in his brain just burst open. “ _What_?”

“He disappeared somewhere between the shelves like ten minutes ago,” Rachel explains. “I assumed he was just browsing around. But considering the bits and pieces I got from your conversation right now that's probably not the case?”

Children.

They're all little, bratty, unreliable children!

“Why did you let him out of your sight like that?” he grumbles.

“Seriously?” Rachel asks, snorting. “I'm just a human and he's a bloody angel. He could vanish right in front of me and I would be able to do _nothing_ about it. So in what world could I _ever_ keep an eye on him?”

Crowley growls as he refrains from admitting that she actually does have a point here. “You could've at least told me he disappeared,” he points out nonetheless.

Rachel's following eye-roll is actually audible through the phone connection. “Oh my God, I just thought he's wandering around or bossing my parents into cleaning the toilet. I wasn't expecting him to – well, whatever the hell he apparently did. Like I said, it's been only ten blasted minutes.”

“Angels can do lots of damage in ten minutes.”

“Then _you_ should have kept an eye on him.”

Crowley grimaces as Aziraphale next to him nods in agreement, his angelic senses not having any trouble listening in to their conversation.

“She is right,” he emphasises. “If you were so worried about Imael, you should have kept him around.”

“ _You_ sent him away, angel,” Crowley hisses right into his face, the tips of their noses almost touching.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale concedes. “I assume he's a lovely fella under normal circumstances, but right now the spell is rendering him fairly annoying. So _of course_ he had to go.”

Crowley takes a very deep breath and counts to ten in his head. “We should've just locked him away or something.”

Aziraphale pulls a face. “Oh, that would have been rather rude, don't you think?”

“So?”

“Crowley –”

“I'm just saying we wouldn't be in this mess if we just would've let him rot in a cage.”

Aziraphale huffs. “What mess are you even talking about?” He shakes his head. “It's not like the sky is falling down on our heads. He only collected the Antichrist.” He instantly turns towards Adam. “And it's very lovely having you here, let me tell you. It's a delight to see you again.”

Adam knits his brows together, apparently highly confused by everything that is unfolding right in front of him. “Uh, all right?”

Aziraphale offers him one last smile, bright and encouraging, and most likely even debates patting his head like a dog's for being such a good boy, but in the end he's at least torn enough to forego such an endeavour and leave it be for the time being. Though Adam will probably receive a lollipop and a pinch on the cheek sometime very soon nevertheless.

For now, however, Aziraphale is way too focused on Crowley. “So please refrain from yelling at Rachel, suggesting to put Imael away or calling Adam's presence here a mess. You're not very nice right now.”

Crowley can't help gesturing at himself. “Demon,” he reminds his friend.

“Oh please, that argument lost any kind of meaning a long time ago.” Aziraphale waves him off as though Crowley's nature is just an unimportant annoyance. “You have to do better than that.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Why are they even having this conversation right now?

Adam, at least, seems to ask himself the same question, glancing back and forth between them in bewilderment and obviously wondering about their sanity.

“My point still stands, though,” Crowley presses through his teeth. “Imael caused trouble. _I told you so_.”

Aziraphale doesn't appear impressed. “You're being childish, Crowley –”

“Oh, _I_ am the one being childish? How about –?”

“Can I go home now?” Adam suddenly interrupts, shutting both of them up immediately. “I'm hungry and my parents are probably calling the army right now because a crazy angel kidnapped me right under their noses, so …” He scrunches his nose. “I don't really wanna stay around here and watch you fight for days.”

Crowley opens his mouth to argue some more, but in the end he seriously doesn't feel like proving the Antichrist right, so he remains quiet and merely glowers at the boy behind his dark glasses.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, sighs. “You're right, dear boy,” he admits. “Sometimes we get a bit carried away. We're sorry.”

“It's fine,” Adam says, shrugging like it's honestly no big deal he's been dragged into another part of the country against his will and has to watch two entities bicker like idiots. “I just wanna go back to my parents and my Mum's meatloaf –”

“Oh, there is dinner involved? Why didn't you say so?” Aziraphale instantly straightens himself, spurring into action like suddenly the fate of the entire world is at stake, and puts his hand on Adam's shoulder in a reassuring manner. “Don't worry, we will reunite you with your meatloaf.”

The Antichrist merely stares at him, not sure what to make of all of this.

Aziraphale, however, simply ignores the boy's befuddled expression as he calls loudly, “IMAEL!”

It only takes about 0.05 seconds for there to hear the fluttering of angel wings. No matter where, no matter when, Imael is obviously more than ready to drop about anything to react to his beloved Aziraphale's summoning.

Imael's face is bright and happy when he pops up right in front of them, keen on bowing to all of Aziraphale's will.

“My love,” he purrs, so giddy to have Aziraphale even voice his name he's probably on the verge of exploding out of pure joy. “I've been missing you since the second I left and –”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale cuts in impatiently, waving him off with a scowl. “I know that speech already, thank you.”

Imael beams. “Oh, you're so very welcome, beloved.”

Aziraphale groans as he rubs his temple. “This is not –” He halts and sighs deeply before pointing at Adam right beside him. “What is _this_ , Imael?”

“That is the Antichrist.”

Crowley wonders whether he should laugh or cry and in the end settles on a face palm.

“I _know_ that,” Aziraphale says, his voice sharp as a knife as he glares at Imael. “I just want to know why he is here? And not at home, with his parents and his meatloaf?”

“Because you are cursed, my sweetheart,” Imael coos, as if Aziraphale might actually have forgotten that fact. “And _he_ is a suspect.”

Aziraphale frowns. “How – how did you even come across the idea to consider him?”

“The Serpent,” Imael explains, nodding at Crowley who can't help a little wince as every single pair of eyes turns towards him all of a sudden. “He made a fairly good point when he claimed that there are powers here on Earth similar to Heaven and Hell, strong enough to even curse a brave and mighty angel like yourself, my love. And the Antichrist – well, he is fairly powerful and above all else most likely not all too pleased with the apocalypse not taking place. He has every reason to punish you, beloved. A clear motive.”

Under normal circumstances this actually wouldn't be such a bad chain of thoughts. Even downright smart, to a certain degree.

But apparently Imael never received any important memos back up in Heaven.

“I'm not angry the apocalypse didn't happen,” Adam jumps in, shaking his head like he can't believe anyone would even think that. “My friends and I were the ones who stopped it in the first place.”

Imael blinks a few times. “Are you sure?”

Adam scoffs. “ _Of course_ I'm sure. It's not something you forget.”

“But – it defies your entire purpose. Your reason for being here.”

“Well,” Adam lifts his eyebrows as he glances at both Crowley and Aziraphale, “we all don't really like to be told what to do.”

Crowley finds himself smirking at the boy, feeling some sort of weird pride at those words.

Aziraphale merely looks like he wants to do everything to get Adam back to his meatloaf.

“You see?” he hisses, narrowing his eyes at Imael. “Adam isn't the one who cursed me. I could have told you that straight away without you having to kidnap an innocent child first.”

Adam raises his hands. “Why would I even do such a thing? It sounds yucky.”

Yeah, the concept of romantic love and an eleven-year-old boy surely don't collude all that well.

“We are friends with Adam,” Aziraphale emphasises and Crowley can't help nodding in agreement. Granted, they don't meet up for afternoon tea or text each other stupid memes, but facing Lucifer himself together hand in hand certainly builds a special bond. “He would never do anything to harm me.”

Imael bites his bottom lip, apparently affected by Aziraphale's tense tone directed straight at him. “I apologise, my love,” he says, his eyes suddenly getting big and pleading. “I never meant to anger you or insult your friends. I merely intended to help you getting rid of this curse.”

Aziraphale heaves a sigh. “I know, Imael …”

“And I figured going straight to the sources would be more efficient than looking at ancient books,” Imael continues, apparently eager to make his point. “Fresh intel instead of old dusty pages.”

Crowley can't really argue with that logic, he has to admit.

“So I brought them here, hoping that I would either catch the true culprit right away or at least get some new information along the way,” Imael goes on. “I thought it would be a more effective use of my time.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line, obviously still torn between being mad at Imael taking action without consulting him first and becoming inclined to forgive him and honour his good intentions.

Crowley, meanwhile, feels himself freezing up.

“Wait, wait, _wait_!” he exclaims, hastily lifting his arms up in the air to make everyone around him stop with whatever they are doing and fixing his hard gaze on Imael as a horrible suspicion suddenly sneaks up on him. “ _Them_?”

Imael tilts his head in confusion. “What?”

“You just said you brought _them_ here,” Crowley repeats, grinding his teeth. “What do you mean by that? You snatched up anyone else beside Adam?”

Aziraphale next to him lets out a low gasp, his wide eyes trained on the other angel.

Imael, in the meantime, looks like he would rather not answer that question. “Um …”

Oh no.

No, no, no, no.

What the hell?

“Oh dear Lord,” Aziraphale moans, “what did you do, Imael?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You seriously didn't think I wouldn't have another cliffhanger up my sleeve, did you? 😝
> 
> But I think any of you who remember (or maybe re-read) Imael's conversation with Crowley and Aziraphale about the love spell two chapters ago might already guess what's about to come!
> 
> I hope you're pumped for it -- I most certainly am 😆
> 
> Until next time!


	15. Heaven And Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellas!
> 
> Here we go again!
> 
> Damn, writing this fic always gets me in the best mood :D Thank you guys for being so supportive and sweet, you're seriously the best cheerleaders ever!
> 
> I hope you have fun with the new chapter ^^
> 
> -

“What did you _do_ , Imael?”

Aziraphale's glare is hard and terrifying and Crowley is pretty relieved he's not the recipient right now. For such an innocent and fluffy looking angel he can be all kinds of scary.

“I only did everything in my powers to protect you,” Imael says, showing off a mighty pair of puppy dog eyes, hoping against all odds that they might be strong enough to distract Aziraphale efficiently. “Your safety and well-being is my utmost priority –”

“Cut the nonsense!” Aziraphale interrupts so harshly Imael flinches back instantly while Crowley feels something hot tingling in his stomach at this display of authority. “Tell me what you did. _Now_!”

_Damn_ , the angel can get pretty bossy.

And Crowley is sincerely grateful that currently nobody is glancing in his direction because he sure as hell looks way more flustered that he has every right to be.

That bloody curse!

And bloody gorgeous angels for being so damned appealing!

Imael, meanwhile, actually seems to share the sentiment (much to Crowley's chagrin), smiling dazedly at Aziraphale as though he can't imagine anything greater than his beloved yelling at him some more.

Ugh.

It's really time for this entire mess to be over.

“I was only thinking about you,” Imael breathes dramatically as he suddenly grips Aziraphale's hands and sighs so loudly the trees around them start to shake. “So don't worry, I've been absolutely discreet. Hell will never know.”

“ _Hell_?” Aziraphale exclaims, tensing up all over. “Oh, Imael, you idiot …”

“Please, my love, don't be upset with me. I only did what I thought right.”

Aziraphale rips his hands out of Imael's grasp and scowls at him harder than he ever scowled before in his life. But Crowley knows him long enough to realise he's more mad and frustrated with the entire situation itself than Imael's actions in particular. 

“Just tell me what you did,” Aziraphale demands. “Or better, just show me.”

Imael hesitates. “You really shouldn't soil your eyes with this.”

“Imael, please …”

Imael seems to melt at first, his eyes going wide and watery as he looks at Aziraphale as though he's the most magnificent creature on earth. But then he straightens his back and tries to find at least a little footing in his spell-foggy brain.

“So you trust the Antichrist?” he asks all of a sudden.

Aziraphale seems taken aback by the unexpected question. He glances at the boy right next to him who shoots him a fairly confused smile in return.

“Yes, I trust Adam,” Aziraphale eventually answers, sounding a little wary. “With my life. Why do you ask?”

Imael merely nods. “So I can leave him with you?”

“Leave him –?” Aziraphale blinks in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“You're not in any danger around him?”

Aziraphale scoffs. “No, of course not.”

“Excellent.” Imael smiles radiantly. “Then you should stay here and eat your little cakes and enjoy all the pleasantries of life while _we_ deal with the situation.”

He grabs Crowley's arm so abruptly the demon flinches and drops his phone in surprise.

“Hey!” he hisses, not certain what's happening, but pretty sure he won't like it.

Aziraphale, apparently, feels the same. “What are you doing, Imael?”

“As I said, you shouldn't soil your eyes with this,” Imael explains, purring right into Aziraphale's face. “Your pure innocence has to be protected at all costs. Let me and the Serpent handle this.”

“Handle this?” Aziraphale exclaims. “Handle _what_?”

Crowley would fancy to learn that as well, but before he's even able to voice any kind of protest he suddenly registers the unmistakable sound of wings rustling and he suddenly gets a very bad feeling.

“No, no, no,” he groans, desperately trying to get out of Imael's tight grasp.

“Don't worry, my love.” Imael gazes at Aziraphale with a soothing smile, the squirming demon in his arms completely ignoring. “We will be back with some answers soon.”

Then he spreads his wings and Crowley loses the ground underneath his feet.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Crowley actually never flew with another being before, neither angel nor demon or anything else, and he notices right away it's all kinds of awful.

Weird.

Nauseating.

Dizzying.

The only good thing is that it's apparently a very short trip because it stops almost as soon as it begins. One second he was standing next to Aziraphale, watching the angel's eyes growing wide as he realised what Imael was about to do, and the next Crowley finds himself somewhere else.

Thankfully with some solid ground right beneath him.

At first Crowley blinks, way too overwhelmed by what just happened to react straight away.

Then he grinds his teeth as his body slowly starts to catch up and he shoots Imael right beside to him a death glare so intense and strong the angel actually takes a step back.

What.

The.

Fuck?

Crowley went through a lot of things in his long life, however, being groped and kidnapped by an angel is surely a new thing.

And he might have accepted such a behaviour from Aziraphale (probably even enjoyed it a little bit … or more like _a lot_ ), but a random angel of the flock with a mushy brain and a bad taste in poetry?

No thank you.

Just as Crowley's about to open his mouth and yell at the impulsive idiot as expressively as possible Crowley suddenly notices his vicinity. No more trees, no more grass, no more birds staring at them and chirping their songs. Instead he's inside, surrounded by wooden panels, vintage furniture, the ugliest couch he's ever seen in his life (and that's seriously saying something) and a piano that appears like it's never been touched with love and affection apart from the occasional cleaning person.

And there is a big window that looks straight out into a very familiar garden. Including a very familiar, demon-repelling veranda.

Ah damn.

“You brought me _inside the mansion_?” Crowley calls in terror, his entire body suddenly clamming up. The memories of being frozen on the spot, unable to move or even blink, while some crazy witches wielded a jug of Holy Water right in front of his face attack him so suddenly and painfully he actually considers to start hyperventilating because it seems like the proper reaction to this fucked-up situation.

Imael, however, appears absolutely relaxed, not a care in the world. “Oh, don't worry, I got you past the protections around the house safely. They won't bother you.”

Crowley wants to punch the young angel so badly he has to bite his cheek to somehow ground himself. “You _trapped_ me in here!”

Imael rises his brows, apparently that little trifle not even having crossed his mind. “Right,” he says, nodding as realisation slowly takes place. “It appears that way.”

Punching.

Kicking.

Yelling.

That all sounds like cathartic things to do right now.

“You can't just grab me and trap me in a house full of mad witches!” Crowley hisses while he jabs his finger pointedly into Imael's chest. “What the hell are you even thinking?”

“Don't worry, I can bring you outside anytime you want,” Imael reassures him, obviously highly puzzled why Crowley is so agitated by this.

“Oh, yes, putting my life into your hands.” Crowley rolls his eyes so hard he gives himself a headache. “Because I trust you _so much_ and we're besties and braid each other's hair every Sunday morning while we talk about boys –”

Imael stares at him like he seriously questions Crowley's sanity. “You want me to braid your hair?”

“No, I want you to get me out of here!”

Imael huffs. “I thought you wanted to help Aziraphale.”

Crowley hates the tone of his voice. Hates how this random angel is impugning his intentions. As though Crowley wouldn't do _anything_ for Aziraphale.

As though this isn't the most important and only thing on the demon's mind.

“Don't you _dare_ –”

“Then we should deal with _them_ first, don't you agree?” Imael points out as he gestures to his left.

And suddenly Crowley realises for the very first time that they're not alone in the room.

Not even close.

No, there are two figures staring at them, amused smirks on their faces, apparently fairly entertained by the argument unfolding in front of them.

Two figures Crowley _really_ hoped he would never see again.

God, why does his life have to be so bloody unfair?

“By all means, please keep going,” Narek encourages them, his weasly face pinched as he studies them with such a scrutiny Crowley can't help feeling awkwardly naked. “This is very fun.”

Right beside him the pile of personified pain and misery and small-mindedness – better known as Hastur – nods in agreement. “Go on then. I wanna see if that little angel rips your head off, Crowley.”

His wicked smile is wide and full of bad teeth and Crowley just hates everyone and everything in this moment, no exceptions. Even Aziraphale gets his fair share for bringing him into this situation in the first place by being stupid enough to end up cursed.

Crowley glares at the two demons and finds himself shaking his head in absolute disbelief. He had actually assumed he'd seen the last of them for a very long time and to know this wonderful fantasy all crushed and burned now makes his chest constrict uncomfortably.

Hastur. The Duke. Always questioning Crowley and his ideas, always deeming him not worthy of the attention he used to get from the Head Office. Constantly scoffing at Crowley's mere existence and, according to Aziraphale, apparently more than happy to see him executed after the almost-apocalypse. 

And Narek. The lowly demon. The little weasel luring in the shadows and whispering dark temptations into the ears of the innocent. The creature too cunning for his own good. The demon who always envied Crowley for his rank and his station on earth. It's even rumoured he actually applied for the job of seducing Eve and Adam back in the beginning, leading to humanity being expelled from Paradise and having to fend for their out in the wilderness. In the end it was Crowley, though, who was ordered to “make some mess” and Narek could never forgive him for stealing the job Crowley technically never asked for in the first place.

Granted, nowadays Crowley's more than grateful it happened, otherwise he would've never met Aziraphale, but back in the days Crowley hadn't been all that thrilled about the entire affair either. Narek, however, was never able to see it that way. For him Crowley is responsible for ruining his chances of an exciting life at the top of Hell and over six thousand years that never changed.

And now he's here, in the Salinger's mansion. They're both here.

Standing right in the middle of the room, underneath a tacky chandelier, and staring right back at him.

And not moving closer.

It takes a moment for Crowley to notice the chalk markings drawn on the floor around them in a circle. He can't recognise every single one of them, but they're giving off a very strong magic smell, combined with a little bit of Heaven vibe, and making him shudder involuntarily.

“I got inspired by the spell on the patio outside,” Imael explains after he picked up where Crowley's attention shifted to. “They're trapped inside the circle. They're still able to talk and give us valuable information, but their powers are useless as long as nobody non-demon messes with the drawings.”

Crowley grimaces.

He doesn't like this. He doesn't like this _at all_.

Too much could go wrong on so many levels and he seriously doesn't want to have to deal with pissed off demons next to smitten angels, insane witches and non-stop baking butlers.

“You're crazy, idiot!” Crowley hisses, scowling at Imael as disapprovingly as possible. “Angels don't just dive down into Hell, kidnap a bunch of demons and get away with it without any kind of repercussion.”

Usually Imael would have been pretty aware of that himself and most likely never done such a foolish thing in the first place, but that stupid enchantment puts him in such a daze he doesn't even realise what he has done. He only cares about helping Aziraphale avoid any sort of inconvenience, no matter how small and unimportant, and he would probably even declare war to all of Hell and beyond just to see to it.

“Why did you bring them here?” Crowley is close to ripping his hair out out of pure frustration. “And why _them_ of all demons?”

“You mentioned their names –”

“As examples,” Crowley points out. “I've got no idea if they have anything to do with what happened to Aziraphale.”

“But they're still suspects –”

“They're probably not even higher on the list than, I don't know, the Witch Queen or whoever,” Crowley growls, waving the angel off. “There are tons of powerful creatures out there and since we didn't have the opportunity yet to narrow it down, you should have kept it safe. Angering Hell for no reason is honestly not a good idea.”

Imael merely stares at him pensively. “There is a Witch Queen?”

Crowley groans and rolls his eyes.

“I should have known it all comes back to you,” Hastur's sultry voice suddenly crawls back into Crowley's ear and digs itself deep into his bones. “You and your little angels, Crowley. I'm not surprised yet another one adopted you and made you his pet.”

Narek snickers in amusement, his grey eyes sparkling mischievously in the bright light of the chandelier.

Imael, in the meantime, raises his brows, looking very intrigued now. “You're Aziraphale's pet?” he asks, his tone absolutely serious. “Well, I guess that would explain a lot of things …”

“The angel only has to snap his fingers and Crowley jumps,” Hastur says. “I'm sure in their private time there are even some leashes involved –”

Crowley bites his bottom lip and refuses to blush, no matter what. He's surely not stupid enough to fall for Hastur riling him up like that, just for laughs and giggles. 

And he's certainly not here to forget he still has the higher ground.

“I would be careful with your words, my dearest Duke,” Crowley says with the most fake politeness he can muster. “I'm sure you remember the last time we were in the same room. You really think it wise to provoke me?”

Hastur looks far from happy at being spoken to in such a manner, but he doesn't voice his displeasure. On the contrary, the image of Crowley sitting in that tub of Holy Water is probably still sealed in his brain, telling him to be cautious around this wild card who might be able to do about anything. At least he starts to fidget slightly, his natural instincts of thousands of years struggling with his desire for survival, and in the end he settles for a dark glare.

“Okay, fine, how about we make this as quick and painless as possible?” Crowley announces, more than keen to have this all over with. “We ask you a few questions, you answer them, and then we all go back to business as though nothing ever happened. How does that sound?”

Narek scoffs. “And you think Hell will just let this slide?”

“Nobody down there noticed I took you,” Imael clarifies, pride swinging in his tone. 

“But they will, eventually.” Narek folds his arms across his chest, most likely in an attempt to look threatening. But he actually rather appears like an angry rat and Crowley seriously has to swallow the urge to laugh right into his face. “Hell will notice we're gone and then not even the Almighty will be able to save you.”

“Well, they might notice Hastur is gone,” Crowley has to admit. “But you? No one gives a crap about you, Narek. We could keep you as a toy for our dear Imael here while nobody down in Hell even remembers your existence.”

It's not entirely true – despite his low status Narek actually managed to make some powerful acquaintances along the way –, but it's still fun to see the vein on his forehead beginning to throb in rage.

“Why are we even here?” Hastur pipes in, a dangerous edge in his tone. “If it's just for entertainment you can just kill me here and now because that's far better than having to see your face for another second.”

A tempting offer.

Really tempting.

But Aziraphale wouldn't be too happy about some dead demons and neither would Hell. And Crowley grew way too accustomed to their new quiet life to see it all go up in flames only after such a short time.

“You're here because this bloke here,” Crowley gestures at Imael, “lost all his marbles. This was seriously not my idea.”

Not _at all_.

But it can't hurt to let them know. Crowley doesn't want to have to do anything with them, they actually don't want to have anything to do with him – so all in all they need to be on the same page with this. Crowley can't have them believe he suddenly took an interest in Hell again.

That's like the last thing on his mind.

For the rest of eternity.

“Just tell us if you cursed Aziraphale or if you know who did it and then you can be on your merry way,” Crowley says, shooting them a tense smile. “That's all there is to it.”

Hastur pinches his face in confusion. “Who is Aziraphale?”

While Crowley groans, more than ready to just crawl into the nearest bed and sleep for at least a century again, Narek leans in and explains to Hastur, “It's the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

Realisation dawns on Hastur's features immediately. “Oh, I see. Your _best friend_.”

He phrases it like an insult, like it's the worst thing anyone could ever say about another being. And from Hell's point of view that's totally the case. Friendship, affection, loyalty – that's really not Hell's style,

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he's surely not here to deny anything. Aziraphale _is_ his best friend and the times where he had to hide that are definitely over, Hell be screwed.

“Yes, my best friend,” he presses through his teeth while he glares at the two demons, challenging them. “Did you curse him or not?”

Hastur tilts his head. “Yes, of course I did.”

Crowley blinks in surprise.

Wait, what?

Imael next to him gasps in shock, gaping at the demon like he wants to devour him whole and leave nothing behind.

“ _You_ cursed Aziraphale?” Crowley hisses.

He can't believe it. After all this, it's supposed to be that easy?

“Yes, naturally I cursed him,” Hastur says, shrugging his shoulders as if it's not a big deal. “Like I curse every single angel. On a daily basis. All the time.”

The sudden tension drains out of Crowley's muscles and he takes a deep breath.

Of course.

Of course it's not that easy.

“No, we want to know if you _actually_ cursed him,” Imael clarifies. “This love enchantment puts him in a lot of misery and I can't have it –”

“Love enchantment?” Hastur cuts him off, like the angel is an annoying bug that is ruining his little afternoon nap. “Why are angels suddenly fed up about love? I thought they get all tingly about this stuff.”

He's highly puzzled by this, as expected the small bit of imagination he possesses not at all equipped for this sort of thinking.

Narek, on the other hand, appears rather intrigued by this information. “A love spell? _Really_?”

Crowley hates how delighted he looks and only the fact that, as a demon himself, he probably can't pass the circle they're currently trapped in without getting into huge trouble as well keeps him from punching that bastard right into his scrunchy nose.

“Wow, that is … _damn_ , it's cruel.” Narek laughs, absolutely amused by this. “Why did we never think of that before?”

Hastur blinks. “How could love be a curse for an angel?”

“Oh, it totally can if you twist it right, turn it into obsession and addiction …”

Those are terms Hastur is quite familiar with, according to the growing smirk on his face. “Well, okay, that sounds nice …”

While Narek goes on and on, his brain obviously going into overdrive at those new possibilities, Crowley only growls and turns toward Imael.

“Bring them back where you found them!” he orders, not really sure whether he's in any position to bark commands at the angel, but determined to try anyway. “They know nothing about this.”

Imael stares at him as though he thinks him downright insane. “And you _believe_ them?”

Crowley points at the two demons with a sigh. “Do they look like they know anything?”

“Demons lie!” Imael points out. “Demons manipulate. Demons pretend. Demons twist everything –”

Crowley cuts him off with a quick raise of his hand. “Stop it, I'm getting a headache.”

“I'm just saying that you should never trust the word of a demon,” Imael emphasises. “I can imagine you know that better than anyone.”

Unfortunately he isn't wrong.

But Crowley refrains from mentioning that. For now he's only glad that Aziraphale's influence is strong enough for Imael to not put him into the circle with those two other idiots as well.

“I know Hastur,” Crowley says. “He's your typical Hell spawn. If he'd have anything to do with this, he would boast about it on a very grand scale. He's not the kind to feign confusion.”

“You can't know that,” Imael insists. “He just admitted that he's cursing angels regularly –”

“In his _mind_ –”

“And they're evil –”

“Well, all right, I'll give you that –”

“And even if they're not involved they might have some information,” Imael states, his bright eyes gleaming. “I won't just let them go only because you say so.”

“Aziraphale –”

“Aziraphale values you as a friend,” Imael interrupts. “That doesn't mean I do the same.”

Crowley scowls at the angel, at his ignorance and youth and inexperience, at the indoctrination he's been under since he first came into being, at the grey fog in his eyes caused by the love spell – and he just knows that whatever he has to say, no matter how smart and reasonable, Imael would never listen to him. He sees both Hastur and Narek as a possible means to help his beloved Aziraphale and that's all that counts for him.

Crowley chews his bottom lip and feels anxiety rush through his whole body.

He can just hope that Imael will be done with the demons and throw them back into Hell before Aziraphale is going to arrive on the scene.

Because if that scenario might actually happen … well, then Crowley will be all out of excuses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You think Crowley will be lucky and Imael is gonna send the demons back to Hell before Aziraphale shows up?
> 
> ...
> 
> Yeah, me neither ;p


	16. Protective Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again 🤗
> 
> Finally, after what feels like eternity, I was able to continue writing again. And damn, how I missed those two idiots and their shenanigans >.<
> 
> But thankfully the next two weeks I've got lots of free time as compensation for my overtime and I'm totally planning to use a good chunk of that to do something productive and meaningful -- writing, of course ;D What else? (Duh.)  
> A nice part of the next chapter is also already finished, so I guess the next installment won't be very long!
> 
> Now I hope you're gonna enjoy the chapter!  
> It's more like a nice little in-between before STUFF hits the fan for real, but I had super fun writing it, so you just have to deal with that 😂
> 
> -

When Imael disappears with Crowley without any warning whatsoever, not even the slightest indication something like this might happen ever, Aziraphale's mouth drops open in shock and for way too long he simply gapes at the now empty spot where those two used to stand just seconds ago.

He feels shocked. Floored.

And, above all else, as his brain eventually manages to catch up, furious.

“ _Imael_!” he yells into the warm afternoon air. “Imael, come back here NOW!”

How could he?

How _dare_ he?

There a few things in this world that would actually make Aziraphale deeply and irrevocably mad, but _this_ – this seriously finds itself added to the list straight away. No detours, no second guessing, no doubts. 

It's an affront to his very person.

To kidnap Crowley right in front of him. The _nerve_.

“How _dare_ you, Imael!” Aziraphale screams, any single being in his vicinity lucky he's able to control his powers so well after all these centuries and millennia because he honestly feels like setting something on fire right now. Or let something explode rather spectacularly. “ _IMAEL_!”

Under normal circumstances Imael would have dropped absolutely everything and rushed to Aziraphale's side in a heartbeat, the enchantment making him focus on his object of affection alone, not giving a damn about anything else in the process. The fact, though, that he fails to show up now makes it crystal clear that he's deeming his current mission even more important than standing next to Aziraphale and sighing dreamily at him. He's obviously convinced that whatever plan he executing right now – and Aziraphale has a _very_ bad feeling about this – will ultimately lead to his love's safety and therefore downright outweighs the spell's pull to listen solely to anything Aziraphale demands of him.

Adam surely seems to share that sentiment. “I don't think he will come back anytime soon.”

Aziraphale groans. “That _idiot_.”

He recalls the surprise on Crowley's face as Imael suddenly grabbed him, instantly followed by annoyance and dawning realisation when he noticed the angel flexing his wings.

And Aziraphale was completely powerless. He could only watch and see Crowley vanish to God knows where. And though he knows that Imael will look out for the demon because he's quite aware how much this means to Aziraphale nobody can be really sure how much his mind and soul is already messed up by the curse. Imael may deem Crowley's life not valuable enough. Or perhaps he has already forgotten why he is supposed to play nice with a demon in the first place.

Anything is possible with this wicked enchantment and Aziraphale feels himself getting fairly anxious merely imagining it.

He lets his eyes roam over their vicinity, almost frantically looking for at least a tiny hint in what direction Imael took Crowley. Everything happened so fast Aziraphale had barely time to blink and now it appears as though they never had been here at all. If it weren't for the slightly flat grass and Crowley's phone lying on the ground, right there where he dropped it in surprise as Imael took hold of him, you could seriously believe this all had been a weird dream.

“Maybe that angel went back to the house,” Adam suddenly chimes in, his large child eyes looking at Aziraphale intensely.

Who only blinks. 

“House? What house?”

Adam gestures to the left. “Where that Imael guy dumped me after he kidnapped me,” he explains. “When he took off right away I just ran for the hills. I mean, he had put me in a circle drawn with runes and probably thought that would keep me at bay or something, but it actually didn't really do anything and I just walked out of there –”

While he rambles on Aziraphale's eyes widen as he slowly begins to realise that Adam's finger points straight in the direction of the Salinger's mansion.

The epitome of a demon repellent.

“The _mansion_?” Aziraphale hisses, interrupting Adam's stream of words rather rudely. “No, no, he wouldn't dare, Imael wouldn't –”

But then he pauses because yes, Imael very much would. 

There is not much rational thought left in that angel.

And though Aziraphale knows deep down that he shouldn't blame the poor fellow for this, that he wouldn't have done _any_ of this if that wretched spell wouldn't force him to, he still can't help fantasising punching Imael in the face for the sheer audacity.

Aziraphale's always been collected and someone who rather sits down and think about a problem first before leaping into action. He's never been much of a fan of losing one's head and getting lost in powerful emotions.

But now?

Now he seriously considers just letting loose. Allowing his powers to do as they please and not think about the consequences in the process. 

There would be destruction, chaos, weeping angels and a very specific demon lifted into Aziraphale's arms like a damsel in distress and brought to safety. Anything or anyone else along the way – well, they wouldn't really matter.

For a second there it sounds absolutely marvellous. He feels tired of playing by anyone's rules. 

But then he spots Adam in the corner of his eyes, looking at him with that childlike innocence, and he hastily berates himself that first there are some people he has to make sure are protected before he's allowed to release his inner feelings in such a violent manner.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to gather his thoughts into a somewhat dignified way. He banishes the last image of Crowley – that look of bewilderment and dawning horror right before he vanished – out of his mind for the time being because it would drive him mad otherwise and reminds himself over and over to stay rational, at least for a short while.

His gaze lands on Crowley's phone that lies to their feet right where the demon had dropped it. Aziraphale picks it up and studies it warily for a moment, not at all sure how this device is even supposed to work. Human technology is both quite impressive as well as highly miraculous.

“Call Rachel,” he orders the phone in the end, hoping it might have some effect.

And it actually works as it springs to life straight away and dials the requested number. Aziraphale isn't entirely sure whether he unconsciously used a miracle to get it to function or whether the phone indeed listens to voice commands since the day it was manufactured, but either way he won't complain.

“Crowley?” Rachel's voice pipes up soon after, stress and a lot of other feelings swinging in her voice. “What the hell is going on?”

“It's Aziraphale,” the angel corrects her immediately. “And, well … I fear the answer lies in your question.”

Rachel's confused frown is actually audible through the phone connection. “What?”

“Imael did something stupid,” Aziraphale explains. “And I'm afraid it involves Hell somehow.”

“ _WHAT_?”

Aziraphale sighs. “You should take your parents and get out of the house as quickly as possible. We assume Imael might be in the mansion. With some, um, guests.”

“Guests,” Rachel repeats, her tone shaky. “From Hell?”

“Yes.”

“Oh dear mother of God!”

Aziraphale grimaces as he finds himself nodding. “I agree.”

He can't help feeling incredibly bad about this. Since this spell decided to grasp on tightly to him he's bringing doom to everyone he cares about. Rachel, Adam, Clifford and his incredible lemon tarts.

Crowley.

Maybe Aziraphale should just stay away from everyone and bury himself in a deep and dark hole. Leave them all behind.

It would be better for everyone involved.

Even if it would break Aziraphale's heart.

“Just get your parents and run for your life,” Aziraphale demands, his chest constricting painfully. “I don't know what Imael has done yet, but I don't want to risk anything. Better safe than sorry.”

Rachel scoffs. “My parents won't be happy about that. Leaving their house to a bunch of angels and demons or whatever Imael pulled out of Hell. Not to mention abandoning _you_ , their one true love or whatever.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line, his thoughts drifting to Beatrice and Henry and what they almost had done to Crowley. How he easily could have ended up _dead_ because of them if Rachel hadn't interfered in the last second. So a vindictive part of Aziraphale – a part of himself he's actually not very proud of, but exists nonetheless – can't help considering just leaving them to their fate. After all, they didn't care much for Crowley's life, so why should he give a damn about theirs?

So for one blessed moment he imagines them fighting for themselves.

But then he remembers he's a bloody _angel_ and even though he despises these people for acting like Crowley's existence is meaningless, it just isn't in his nature to be this cruel. They might not deserve to be saved, but who is he to decide that? 

Furthermore, they're Rachel's parents and despite their faults she loves them. And Aziraphale could never do anything to hurt her in such a manner.

So yes, even Beatrice and Henry have to be protected in the end. Begrudgingly and with gritted teeth, but it still will happen.

“Just tell them … I don't know, that they're meeting me in town,” Aziraphale says. “Tell them something about a surprise date or whatever. Just to get them out of the house.”

Rachel takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess that might work.”

“Great,” Aziraphale agrees. “Get moving then. I will send Clifford and Adam your way and you all can leave as quickly as possible.”

He lowers the phone, just hearing Rachel's low voice asking in confusion, “Who the fuck is Adam??” before telling the device to shut down. Once again it does as it's told and once again Aziraphale has no idea if that has been his own doing or if the phone actually listens to his orders.

He makes a mental note to ask Crowley about this later.

Because Crowley just has to be fine and alive and completely unharmed. Aziraphale won't accept anything else. 

“I'm gonna go with you,” Adam suddenly pipes up, his tone allowing no objections as he stares the angel down as only the Antichrist is able to do. “I'm not leaving you out of my sight again.”

“Adam, dear boy …”

“You know who I am.”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale confirms. “But since the apocalypse … well, the apocalypse that didn't technically happen –”

“Because of me!”

“Yes, I know,” the angel hurries to agree. “But I doubt you still have the ability to change reality in such a big capacity any more, right? And it would be terribly rude of me to expose you to any kind of danger –”

Adam merely rolls his eyes. “I still have enough power to not need your blessing,” he makes himself clear. “I'm not asking for permission here. I'm coming with you.”

Aziraphale looks at him helplessly for a second, not sure what to do about the situation. Dragging a child right into a conflict between Heaven and Hell is never a good idea.

But then again, that has been Adam's destiny all along, since the moment of his birth.

Right?

Not to mention that Aziraphale probably seriously doesn't have the strength to keep the Antichrist at bay. At least not without wasting precious time while Crowley is trapped inside a hostile mansion with an unpredictable angel and who knows what else.

“Alright, fine,” he concedes. “We don't have time to argue.”

Adam grins widely, obviously very pleased with himself.

“But don't do anything stupid, you hear me?” Aziraphale adds. “Only follow my lead and leave the talking to me.”

“And if we have to kick some butts?”

Aziraphale groans. “Let's try talking first, alright? If we, against all odds, see ourselves in need of 'kicking some butts' in the end, I'll give you a signal.”

Adam nods, apparently satisfied with that answer. At least for the time being.

Aziraphale heaves a deep breath as he throws one last wistful glance at those wonderful lemon tarts, hoping and praying that he will eventually see them again, before grabbing both Antichrist and the butler and spreading his wings.

They moan and complain, seriously not used to getting that much action, but Aziraphale honestly has no time to saunter and enjoy the view.

Not with that stupid demon of his being in peril, _again_.

Dear Lord.

After this mess is finally cleaned up, they both really need a long and relaxing vacation.

“Let's go save a demon and kick some angel butt,” Adam exclaims excitedly, obviously eager to get this show on the road.

Aziraphale can't help shooting him a reproachful glance. “You need to watch your language, young man.”

“Just get going!” 

Aziraphale sighs, once again wondering what he did to deserve this, and in the end does as he's told.

Off to get to his best friend and, apparently, kick some angel butt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You go kick that angel butt, Aziraphale!!


	17. Pretty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, fellas!
> 
> I hope you're all well and safe, wherever you are 💗
> 
> And, as always, a big thank you for all the love you're showing me and this story!! Your nice words mean the world to me and I'm happy that my fic is able to make you smile 😊
> 
> You're the best, my friends!!
> 
> Then I hope you have fun with the chapter!  
> I sure did writing it ;)
> 
> -

Watching Heaven and Hell collide with each other is never fun.

Way too intense. Way too real. And way, _way_ too unbearable to witness.

It usually starts with glares and snarls and such deep scowls that facial features sometimes find themselves damaged permanently. And then come the insults, most of them so unimaginative and repetitive it's get boring after only five minutes. It's always “feathery bastard” this or “crawling vermin” that on an infinite loop. The last few millennia no one on either side ever came up with some more creative offences and it's actually a downright tragedy. 

Eventually, when death glares and bad words aren't enough any more, it switches to physical violence and, if corporeal bodies are involved, bloodshed. No elegance, no style. Especially the angels always claim to be clever strategists, but as soon as they accidentally meet a random demon on the street or whatever everything is forgotten and everybody regresses to the cavemen they actually never really were but somehow once upon a time still internalised for some reason. 

It's pathetic and quite honestly a crying shame. 

Humans wrote sonnets and poems and entire novels about the disputes between Heaven and Hell, turning it into something epic and eternal and almost artfully beautiful, though in reality the whole thing is just a ruddy mess full of idiots losing their heads at the sight of each other.

And it's clearly not any different with the angel and those trapped demons Crowley finds himself in the same room with.

Granted, Imael is under the influence of a powerful curse that is slowly liquefying his brain, so he actually might get a pass here, but deep down Crowley is pretty sure he wouldn't have acted any different if he'd have the chance to be his true and spell-free self.

Hastur, at least, has not the privilege of any excuse as he calls Imael an “heavenly waste of space” for the fourth time in a row, looking unjustifiably pleased with his insult as he bares his teeth at the angel. Crowley, however isn't exactly surprised by that considering Hastur isn't known for his creativity. He is doing things the exact same way since the beginning of life and nothing will change him from his course. Not now, after all this time.

“This is stupid,” Imael growls, for the 64th time in the last five minutes. “Hell _has_ to be responsible for Aziraphale's misfortune. There is no other explanation.”

“Only because your squishy brain isn't capable to understand simple things –”

“Don't deny Hell's involvement in this!” Imael orders, stepping so close to the chalk circle for a second there Crowley fears he might cross it and get into a ruffle with Hastur right here and now. “This curse is so powerful – no one else would have the ability to yield something like that.”

“Apart from Heaven, naturally.”

Imael's entire head gets red with rage and it would almost look hilarious if Crowley wouldn't be so dead set on not being on Hastur's side, no matter what. So instead he keeps on gritting his teeth and praying that all of this would be over soon.

“Heaven would _never_!” Imael exclaims, stomping his feet like a toddler with a temper tantrum. “Aziraphale is a respected angel –”

Hastur scoffs. “From what I heard he's not that popular anymore. Exactly like _that_ one.”

His voice is laced with disgust as he dismissively nods his head in Crowley's direction.

“Heaven would _never_ use a love spell as a weapon,” Imael insists. “No matter what Heaven might think of Aziraphale, it's just not a thing that would be done. It goes against _everything_ we stand for.”

“Angels really enjoy claiming to be the keeper of peace and love, right? At the end of the day you're only just a bunch of hypocrites, though.”

Crowley hates to agree with Hastur out of principle, so he presses his lips into a thin line and berates himself not to nod approvingly. 

“How _dare_ you, you demonic abomination –” 

“I dare all I like, chicken wing –”

Crowley lifts an eyebrow in surprise.

Chicken wing.

Huh, that's a new one. And actually not half bad.

Would you look at that? Crowley would nearly call himself proud – _if_ he'd possess even an ounce of something resembling to fondness for Hastur, of course. At it is he merely pulls a face and reminds himself yet again that he actually likes _nobody_ in this room.

“Heaven is _not_ responsible for this!” Imael emphasises. “It can't be.”

“Well, Hell isn't either,” Hastur claims, shrugging his shoulders. “I would know about it.”

“That's impossible! Who else could it be?”

While the two continue to insult each other and call the other liar with such aggravation and passion it's almost interesting to watch, Crowley can't help glancing at Narek. The demon had been quiet the whole time, probably not daring to interfere with an argument between a Duke of Hell and an angel, way too attached to his limbs and his further existence to get in Hastur's way.

But now he started to look pensive, his gaze drifting out of the big window. Staring at the dirt on the glass, at the bird sitting on the windowsill outside, at that blasted coffee table running in the distance, at the trees dancing softly in the light afternoon breeze. 

Narek is deeply in thought.

And Crowley knows that look very well.

“You've got an idea, don't you?” he asks, stepping closer as the other two suddenly stop fighting at the raise of Crowley's voice. Crowley, however, has only eyes for Narek who has obviously no intention to return that courtesy. “You've got an inkling who might have cursed Aziraphale, right?”

Narek blinks, still gazing out of the window.

And after a beat he admits, “Maybe.”

Crowley hisses and only the fact that the guy is currently sitting in a demon trap that most likely wouldn't react well to his proximity either keeps him from grabbing Narek at his collar and giving him a good shake.

“Care to enlighten us?”

Narek snorts, as though Crowley just made an absolutely ridiculous joke. “Why would I tell _you_ of all people?”

His eyes are hard as they finally focus on Crowley.

“Well, because perhaps it would get you out of your little cage here,” Crowley points out, making a grand gesture of flailing his arms all over. “Just tell us and we might consider your current housing situation.”

Not that he has any influence on that whatsoever, after all he can't probably even touch the chalk on the floor without burning his very soul to a coal of ash or something, but it doesn't hurt to play up some confidence nonetheless.

Narek, however, doesn't seem impressed by any of this. “Sitting in a cage still sounds preferable to doing _you_ a favour.” 

Damn, his tone sounds like Crowley is the greatest scum to ever exist.

Narek obviously really knows how to hold a grudge. Crowley, in return, barely remembers the last conversation they had or how long it's been. A thousand years? Two thousands?

Who cares? 

Apart from Narek, apparently.

“So you wanna sit here for all eternity, is that it?” Crowley wonders, lifting his brows. “With _him_?”

He gestures at Hastur and Narek at least has the good sense to look concerned for a moment. Sharing a confined space with Hastur for a longer period of time surely sounds like a nightmare come true, even – or especially – for another demon. 

“' _Eternity_ ' is a bit excessive, don't you think?” Narek points out, though, his features settling. “As soon as Hell discovers our absence we will be found pretty soon.”

Unfortunately he has a point.

Damn.

“So why should I tell you _anything_?” Narek snorts. “It seems way more fun letting you stew.”

Crowley tenses all over. He has no time for this.

Aziraphale is going to show up any minute now, Crowley is pretty sure of that. And he honestly doesn't even want to consider the consequences of the love curse hitting both Hastur and Narek.

It's so _wrong_ Crowley can't help getting nauseous at the mere thought. 

Not to mention the fact that Narek actually might have a lead and not just a fleeting idea. Crowley hates to admit it, but that demon is quite sharp in the head and is surely able to connect dots no one else even thought of before. If there's seriously something flickering through his mind it actually might be worth a whole lot.

Perhaps even the answer to Aziraphale's problem.

“You're seriously desperate, aren't you?” Narek narrows his eyes as he studies Crowley intently. “Rather fascinating, I have to confess.”

He seems quite pleased by this development. Hastur right beside him can't help a satisfied grin as well, staring at Crowley as if he can't imagine anything better than Crowley grasping for straws and despairing in the process.

And knowing him for quite a whole he probably honestly can't imagine anything more entertaining than watching Crowley's misery.

Crowley, meanwhile, takes a deep breath and chides himself not to be intimidated by their intense gazes. “I just want this to be over and done with. I'm quite sick of your faces.”

It's certainly not a lie.

“I can surely return the sentiment,” Narek agrees, too.

“So how about you just tell us about your tiny tingling and we actually might find a solution that will satisfy all of us?” Crowley suggests, simultaneously prodding Imael's side to keep the angel from protesting in any shape or form. “I mean, if we're being frank, none of us wants to be here, right?”

Narek blinks. “You're really _so_ desperate you would consider releasing us for a suspicion that just popped up in my head?”

“Well …”

“Not to mention the fact that you're downright blind and stupid not to have considered that possibility yourself,” Narek points out, his smirk wide and ugly. “Have you always been this small-minded or did the humans mellow your brain in the last few millennia?”

“I'm pretty sure it's both,” Hastur pipes in rather unhelpfully.

“Yes, I guess you're right,” Narek confirms. 

And then those two suddenly start to debate Crowley's sheer incompetence, swapping stories like eager children and obviously having the time of their lives basking in Crowley's failures. Suddenly it isn't all that important anymore that they're sitting in a demon trap, no way of getting out of there but a spell-foggy angel.

Crowley should be flattered by all that attention, but he'd rather have them get their moves on.

“Why didn't you kidnap some more cooperative demons?” Crowley tells Imael, sighing deeply. “They're absolutely useless.”

Imael straightens his back, obviously offended by Crowley's tone. “ _You_ told me their names!”

“I didn't tell you to kidnap them,” Crowley insists. “We won't get anything out of them, you realise that, right? They're just stalling for time until someone in Hell notices them missing and sends the troupes.”

Imael steps closer, his angelic presence so suffocating Crowley can't help grimacing. “There are ways to get a demon to talk.”

Crowley arches his brows, suddenly something heavy settling in his stomach. “You mean torture?”

He's really not sure he's comfortable with this.

Even if it's Hastur and Narek.

“Aziraphale ordered me to get rid of all the Holy Water,” Imael reminds him. “But it would be quite easy to get it back here.”

Yeah, Crowley is _definitely_ not comfortable with this.

At all.

“Listen, stupid little angel –”

“You've got any better ideas?”

Crowley surely has not, but the image of Imael handling some Holy Water is about the most terrifying thing he can think of.

“Mate, Aziraphale won't be happy about that,” Crowley points out, hoping that the mentioning of his beloved soulmate spurs something like common sense into Imael. “You really want to piss him off?”

The corners of Imael's mouth sag downwards. “He's already upset with me. It won't make a difference.”

“Oh, little puppy, don't say that –”

“ _ **IMAEL**_!!!”

The sudden outburst of Aziraphale's voice sounding through the mansion's hallways makes both Crowley and Imael flinch so hard they almost loose their balance and drop ungracefully on the floor.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

“No, no, no,” Crowley whispers, desperation grasping him tightly. “No, no, please no.”

This can't be happening.

It just can't.

Crowley didn't manage to come all the way here for everything to collapse like a house of cards. This can't be _it_.

“You see?” Imael says, his skin white as a sheet. “He's already upset with me.”

Crowley stares at the fancy double wing door, so far still perfectly closed and keeping any Guardians of Eastern Gates outside. He listens to Aziraphale from the depths of the house calling Imael's name in rage, obviously more than ready to rip the other angel's wings off, and his voice is getting closer and closer by the second.

Fuck.

Crowley spurs into action before he even knows it's happening. Only powered by the thought of making sure that Aziraphale could never lay eyes on Hastur and Narek.

Because that … that would be a disaster.

“Get them out of here!” Crowley hisses at Imael as he grabs the door handle.

Imael seems way too shell-shocked to remember how to react properly. “What?”

“The _demons_!” Crowley clarifies, gesturing at the two morons in question. “You don't want Aziraphale to see them, right?”

Imael winces as though the mere idea is giving him an awful stomachache. “No, of course not!” he assures. “He is way too pure and innocent and his eyes should _never_ be soiled with such a repulsive sight –”

“Yes, yes, get on with it then!” Crowley says impatiently, waving his arms around to hopefully get his point across. “The sooner the better.”

And then he rushes into the hallway to intercept Aziraphale and grant Imael some valuable minutes to clean up his mess.

Thankfully it doesn't take long to locate the angel since he's very vocal about his general displeasure and yells throughout the house like a madman on his personal warpath. Crowley merely has to walk around a few corners and soon enough spots him at the base of a big stairwell, screaming his lungs out and seemingly ready for murder.

_Damn_ , he never looked more delicious.

And that's clearly not the spell talking.

“Crowley!” another voice suddenly calls out, in undeniable childlike excitement, and Crowley sees himself confronted with the bloody Antichrist grinning so widely at him as if Christmas and Easter decided to arrive on the same day. It's almost endearing, actually.

_If_ Crowley would have a soft spot for human children.

Which he seriously does not.

Not even a little bit.

“Hey, guys!” Crowley merely says as he smiles weakly and offers them a little wave in greeting, knowing fully well that he looks like an idiot, but once again unable to help himself.

All in all it's just a very stressful situation.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale sounds beyond relieved as he spots Crowley and for a moment gazes at him with the most gentle expression in the history of visible facial emotions. Crowley feels hot all over, his blood boiling under such _everything_ , and he barely manages to get some incoherent noises out.

Soon enough Aziraphale hurries at his side, his hands roaming over Crowley's arms, his torso, and, one tiny second, his cheek, and the demon is about ready to combust.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, the concern in his eyes quickly melting away at the sight of Crowley walking and talking and obviously unharmed. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine, angel.” Crowley tries to appear annoyed, but he's pretty sure he fails miserably.

Aziraphale, at least, releases a tense breath. “My dear,” he says, shaking his head. “This is getting ridiculous. This is the second time _today_ I have to come to your rescue –”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Crowley scoffs, deeply offended. “There is no rescuing needed, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I beg to differ –”

“I was perfectly alright both times,” Crowley reminds him, gritting his teeth. “Look at me! Do I look like a damsel in distress?”

Aziraphale does as he's told and looks – _really_ looks, like he has to analyse every single inch of Crowley's body with utmost scrutiny – before eventually his brows go up, his gaze turning pointed. “Well, actually … you do look like a damsel –”

Crowley gasps. Dramatically.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“I think it's the jeans,” Adam leaps in, attempting to be helpful. “They're very tight.”

“They certainly are,” Aziraphale agrees, but he sounds rather distracted as he assesses Crowley's trousers with an intensity that surely isn't necessary.

_Damn_.

Crowley feels his cheeks burning up and it takes a lot of willpower to get his body functions under control. Thankfully Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice, way too busy with checking out Crowley's lower half, but Adam shoots him an amused smirk. He might just be an eleven-year-old boy, but he surely knows what's up.

Great.

“Let's forget my wardrobe for a second here, okay?” Crowley growls, waving his hands right in front of Aziraphale's eyes to hinder his gaze and jerk him out of whatever reverie is going on in his brain right now. “Everything is fine, you don't need to worry.”

Aziraphale frowns at that. “But Imael –”

“Imael is an idiot, yes,” Crowley confirms. “And I can handle him.”

“But –”

“Just go back to your lemon tarts,” he insists, flapping his hands in a _go-away_ gesture. “I've got this covered.”

Aziraphale's scowl only deepens, clearly not pleased to hear these words. “So you expect me to leave you inside a house you're trapped in, with an unpredictable angel as your company?” He snorts. “Are you mad?”

And okay, fair, he has a point.

Crowley wouldn't have just retreated either if their positions would've been reversed. 

“Fine, you're right,” Crowley hurries to assure. “Then let's go all together. _Now_.”

Aziraphale, however, doesn't seem all too appeased about that either. “Where is Imael?”

“He's an idiot.”

“Yes, we established that.” Aziraphale gives him a flat look. “But _where_ is he? And what the hell did he do?”

Crowley starts to squirm awkwardly, he just can't help himself. “Like I said, I handled it. Nothing to worry about.”

“ _Nothing_ to worry about?” Aziraphale asks incredulously. “Are you out of your mind?”

Crowley is just about to defend his sanity in a very spectacular – and time-consuming – manner when suddenly voices are sounding through the hallway. Angry and fairly loud. 

Hastur and Imael, who obviously decided to upgrade their disagreement and general dislike of each other into a screaming match.

Because _of course_.

“What _the fuck_ is going on here?” Aziraphale growls.

And at first Crowley is so bloody floored to hear his angel swear that profanely he can't do anything else but widen his eyes almost comically and stare at him in absolute shock. Asking himself if he missed something very vital in the last six-thousand years. Considering he seriously had no idea that Aziraphale even _knew_ such words to begin with.

But unfortunately Aziraphale uses his temporary distraction to spur into action again and follows the voices yelling at one another. And he is surprisingly quick for an angel who loves to indulge in pastries and reads books for days on end, not even moving once.

Crowley merely has time to let out a squeaky noise and make some last attempt to avert Aziraphale from his path, but he only manages to trip over his own feet and those two seconds are more than enough for the angel to make that last step into the salon full of supernatural entities.

No, no, no, no, NO.

Crowley rushes after him, hoping against all odds that he might be able to salvage the situation somewhat, no matter how. His heartbeat going into overdrive surely is suitable motivation to get him going.

Stepping back into the room himself he notices that Imael apparently achieved nothing in his short absence. The demons are still standing in their little chalk circle and the angel still glares at them like they murdered his entire family.

Well, he _used_ to glare at them. As soon as he sets eyes on Aziraphale the enchantment kicks in and everything else is completely unimportant and forgotten.

“My love!” he exclaims, sounding happier as a rabbit during mating season. “What a wonderful –”

“Imael, what _did_ you _do,_ you idiot?” Aziraphale cuts in sharply, not at all trying to stay at least somewhat polite. He gestures at the demons, his motions near frantic. “You – and they – and we – what the hell were you even thinking?”

“Beloved, I was just trying to help –”

“Oh, cut the crap!” Aziraphale hisses, looking so furious and so absolutely attractive that both Imael and Crowley have no real idea how to deal with that. “How could you be so reckless? Dragging _Hell_ into this … after everything Crowley and I went through …”

He goes on relentlessly, his voice deathly as a knife as he recounts every single reason why even looking into Hell's direction is the _“absolute dumbest idea since angelkind took its first breath”_ and under other circumstances this would be the most glorious and hilarious thing to ever witness.

But as it is, Crowley's secret is at stake here.

While Adam next to him seems quite enthralled by Aziraphale's tirade and eventually pulls a phone out (that looks suspiciously like Crowley's) to record the entire scene, Crowley shoots a tentative glance in the demons' direction, dreading what he is about to see.

But soon enough he realises that they seem … normal.

Granted, fairly fascinated with the things unfolding in front of them, but that's certainly not astonishing. After all, watching one angel almost ripping another angel's head off is surely a rarity for a demon to be present at, so of course they would find themselves delighted by the prospect.

So that's clearly not out of the ordinary.

Is it possible …? 

Does this mean that the spell seriously has no effect on them? For real? Is this proof that both of them don't possess even one inch of cell the curse would be able to influence? Is their total lack of compassion and failure to comprehend even the mere idea of affection too much for the spell in the end?

Crowley almost dares to hope.

Almost.

He's even on the verge of crying in relief.

And _then_ it happens.

Gradually.

But it happens.

And it's the most horrible thing Crowley ever witnessed in his life.

Just one second he deems himself the luckiest moron in the world and then just a moment later he sees both Hastur and Narek's expressions _melting_ into something so horrifying probably Hell itself would be scared shitless by the sight.

It's a train wreck.

A catastrophic car accident.

It's _moon eyes_ and _smiles_ and _soft features_ and honest-to-God _sighs._

Stuff of the most traumatic nightmares.

Oh dear Lord in Heaven.

“Pretty angel,” Hastur purrs.

He _purrs_.

Crowley really wishes a lightning bolt would hit him right here and now and wipe him from existence. That would be less painful. By an awful lot.

Aziraphale, in the meantime, pauses his shouting monologue at the sound of Hastur's voice and stares at the demon with confusion. “Um … what?”

“Pretty angel,” Hastur repeats, nearly pulling a muscle by trying to flatter his eyelashes somehow. ( _Does_ he even have eyelashes?? Crowley never looked close enough to check.) “Aziraphale is your name, isn't it? So pretty. Pretty, pretty, pretty.”

Narek makes a confirming sound beside him. “Yes, a pretty name for a pretty angel.”

Oh for the love of – 

Why is there never anyone around when you need to get shot?

“Uh … yes, my name is Aziraphale …” the angel answers hesitantly, clearly weirded out by those demons _smiling_ at him.

Crowley can't blame him. It looks like they both have no clue how to even start a bloody smile and just decided to twitch some random face muscles, hoping it would have the desired effect.

Pathetic.

“So _magnificent_ , my little angel,” Hastur breathes, leaning as close to Aziraphale's general direction as his cage allows it. “You're so pretty I want to swallow you whole and digest you for weeks.”

Aziraphale's eyes widen in clear panic. 

“Oh. Dear. Lord.”

Narek, meanwhile, tilts his head and studies the angel as though he is a damned Happy Meal.

“So pretty,” he agrees, his tone probably meant to be seductive and sultry. “I want to skin you alive and wear you until the end of time itself.”

Aziraphale's eyes grow even bigger.

“What _the fuck_?”

Great. Swearing twice in a short amount of time. With a minor present, no less.

Undoubtedly not a good sign.

“What is going on here?” Aziraphale demands to knows, his voice a few octaves higher than normally. “Are they … are they _flirting_?”

His bewilderment is certainly understandable. It actually sounds more like Hastur and Narek want to kill him and do unspeakable things to his remains after his death.

_Demons_ , ladies and gentlemen.

“But … but …” Aziraphale seems so thoroughly confused Crowley is on the verge of pulling him into a hug. “I don't understand … what …?”

“I guess it's the spell,” Adam adds helpfully, the phone still up in the air as he continues recording the scene. “Right?”

Aziraphale blinks. “No, that can't be,” he objects. “Demons – they're not … it doesn't work on …”

And then his gaze sets on Crowley, his eyes so goddamned intense the demon prays for that lightning bolt yet again.

“The spell,” he says, an edge in his voice now. “It shouldn't work … but it _does_ … it's the spell, isn't it?”

What is Crowley supposed to say to this? He can't exactly make up some excuses. Not with Hastur actually making a bloody kissy face and rendering Crowley blind with the atrocity of that sight alone.

“Uh …”

“How come the spell has an effect on these demons?” Aziraphale's tone is so low it's barely audible at this point. “And not on _you_?”

Crowley blinks.

Rapidly.

“Uuuuuhhhhh ….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I mean and cruel?
> 
> Yeah, I guess I am ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> But I'm gonna try and hurry up with the new chapter!  
> Be warned, though. About 50% of that will consist of demons "flirting" with Aziraphale!  
> I hope you don't mind 😜


	18. A Litter of Kittens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter wasn't planned this way AT ALL >.<
> 
> I already had it written in my head, from start to finish, everything was PLANNED, but then those two idiots just had to ignore _everyone else in the goddamned room_ and only had eyes for each other!! And completely flipped my draft over along the way.
> 
> Like seriously, what the hell???
> 
> *takes a deep breath*
> 
> Okay, I'm deeply sorry that those lovestruck, smitten, pining, moronic, married-without-even-realising-that-they're-married, domestic and soft fools just had to be that way and and take up all the time and ruin everybody's fun in the process 😫
> 
> I mean, do they really believe we're all just here because of them??  
> HELLO????
> 
> I hope you'll be able to somewhat enjoy the chapter despite those dumbasses!
> 
> -

This is seriously not how Aziraphale imagined his life after the non-apocalypse would look like.

He dreamed about spending his nights at the bookshop, with a nice cup of cocoa and perhaps some soothing music in the background. About leisure dinner dates at the Ritz and the occasional stop at the local bakery. About little trips (and perhaps at some point even longer ones) to the countryside. About drinking wine with Crowley and arguing about the most ridiculous things.

He dreamed about piece and quiet.

And now?

Now he's standing inside the mansion of a powerful witch coven, with a young angel gazing adoringly at him as though he hung all the stars by himself, with two demons grinning lasciviously as they purr about ripping him into pieces, and with the Antichrist who seems to be more than happy to record everything that is happening for future generations.

And then there is Crowley.

Crowley who, for some reason, seems to be the only one unaffected by the spell.

“What is going on here?” Aziraphale demands to know, stepping closer to his friend. Partly because he doesn't want the entire room to overhear, but mainly because Crowley looks like he's ready to turn on his heels and take flight. And Aziraphale seriously can't let that happen. For various reasons. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale urges further, on the verge of reaching out, but at the same time unsure whether he might scare him off with some hasty movements like a skittish animal. So he lets his hand hang awkwardly between them, prepared to both offer reassurances and keep the demon from running off if it needs to.

“Uuummm.”

Eloquently as ever Crowley squirms on the spot, looking the most uncomfortable Aziraphale has ever seen him. And that includes the time they faced the Devil himself together.

That surely doesn't bode well.

“Do you know what's going on here?” Aziraphale inquires, keeping his voice low. “Why are these two cretins over there affected and you're not?”

Crowley fidgets some more.

“Uuuhhh … ngk …”

Well, that isn't exactly helpful.

“ _Crowley_!”

The demon flinches like Aziraphale slapped him right into the face.

“I don't – I mean, I'm not –” Crowley stammers as he gestures helplessly at the other two demons. “I mean, they … uh …”

His speech is getting incoherent again as he wiggles like a fish desperate to escape the situation.

And Aziraphale has no idea what to make of it.

Granted, love spells are tricky things. And there are countless possibilities why Crowley might not feel the same effect as every other seeing adult.

On top of that of course the theory that he actually might be the activator for all of this. Aziraphale won't ever believe the demon might have some malicious intentions towards him – he'd rather reconcile with Heaven and throw a grand tea party for Gabriel than _ever_ believing that for a millisecond –, but accidents happen. Magic is unpredictable and perhaps Crowley did something or just came in contact with something that triggered the entire misery.

“You're not responsible for this, by any chance?” Aziraphale can't help asking. “Perhaps you meddled with some magic a while ago and forgot about it?”

Crowley's haunted expression changes instantly into something between anger and shock. “What? _No_!”

“I'm not accusing you of anything here,” the angel makes himself clear. “But it's _very_ telling that you seem to be the only one completely unaffected by this. This can't be a coincidence.”

Crowley huffs. “So that means I have to be the one that cursed you, is that it?”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “Just this morning you told me it might very well be that all of this is just an accident, remember?” It seems like a lifetime ago now as Crowley showed up at the bookshop and Aziraphale had been absolutely terrified his friend might fall victim to the enchantment as well. “Maybe it was _you_ who read the wrong passage of a book out loud, not _me_.”

Crowley scoffs as though the mere idea is absolutely absurd. “I don't read books.”

“Then perhaps it was something else,” Aziraphale objects. “Did you desecrate the tomb of an Egyptian Pharaoh lately? Took a gift from a witch? Anything?”

“And why would something like that result in _you_ getting hit by a love spell?” Crowley wonders.

“It might not,” Aziraphale agrees. “Perhaps those events are entirely unrelated. But it could explain why you're immune.”

Crowley raises a brow and studies him like he thinks the angel insane. 

(And perhaps he's not entirely wrong.)

“So you think I'm immune because I hung out with a dead Pharaoh?” 

“Possibly. Maybe?”

Crowley grimaces. “I hate to break it to you, but Pharaohs have never been my style. Even when they were alive and not rotting flesh wrapped in toilet paper.”

“It's not toilet –”

“I know, I know,” Crowley interrupts, lifting his hand to stop Aziraphale from continuing any further. “I'm just saying, my life has been spectacularly uneventful lately. No Pharaohs or witches. Well, apart from the Salingers here, of course.”

Aziraphale pulls a face. “It must be _something_.”

Anything.

Because the closest explanation, the easiest one, the one everyone else would have jumped to right away – it can't be true.

It's just … 

No.

NO.

Aziraphale can't afford to even _consider_ it.

To get his hopes up.

It simply can't be.

He would know. After all this time, he would know.

Right?

_Right_?

“I bet it's like in _The Chamber of Secrets_ ,” Adam's voice suddenly pipes up right next to him, his childlike expression almost adorable as he offers his theory.

Aziraphale, however, has no clue what he's even trying to say. “What?”

“ _The Chamber of Secrets_ ,” Adam repeats, with emphasis. 

Aziraphale blinks. “Are you talking about the _Harry Potter_ series?”

“Yes,” Adam says with a wide grin. “The gaze of a basilisk can kill you if it hits you directly. But in the book all the students at Hogwarts don't look straight at it, and in the end are not affected by that murder glare.”

Aziraphale blinks some more. “And what does that have to do with our situation?”

“Everyone who looked at you fell in love, right?” Adam asks.

Aziraphale nods. “Right.”

The boy points at Crowley. More precisely, his face. “Sunglasses,” he announces, pride swinging in his voice.

Aziraphale merely continues blinking rapidly. “ _What_?”

“You've probably been wearing them the whole time, like you always do, right?” Adam asks the demon who looks equally confused as Aziraphale but finds himself nodding in confirmation nonetheless. “See? You've been looking at Aziraphale through tainted glass since everything started. Like with the basilisk.”

Crowley stares at the child and seems like he's seriously questioning Adam's sanity.

And Aziraphale actually shares that sentiment.

“So you're saying Crowley basically never really _looked_ at me properly because of the dark glasses?” The angel's head finds itself shaking automatically. “That's ridiculous.”

“Why?” Adam wonders, obviously a bit pet-peeved at the lack of any enthusiastic reactions. “It makes sense.”

Aziraphale huffs. “This is a very powerful spell,” he reminds the boy. “Do you really think it would be impressed by a pair of sunglasses? It's absurd to even –”

But then he trails off as he can't help thinking that Crowley's view of the angel surely has been different than anybody else's because of his sunglasses. Granted, at first glance it appears laughable to even consider such a tiny thing making such a difference, but Aziraphale learnt over the years that in the great scheme of events smallness has been overlooked many times.

So perhaps this spell is seriously devastating enough to put both Heaven and Hell on its knees, but at the same time never cared to see about something as mundane as sunglasses.

Sure, at the end of the day it still sounds ridiculous, however, at this point Aziraphale wouldn't be surprised by anything any more.

“It's highly unlikely,” he points out nevertheless. Before turning towards Crowley and insisting, “But, just to be safe, make sure to keep them on.”

Crowley nods quickly.

And Aziraphale sighs heavily.

“This is all getting truly insane,” he complains. “But we should still investigate this new development. It might be vital information.”

Crowley seems not all too thrilled about the idea of digging further into his spell-resisting ability.

“Angel …”

“Like I said, it can't be a coincidence,” Aziraphale states. “Maybe you triggered the curse by accident, maybe you're just immune because of something that happened or you received in your past, like a token of affection by a witch you got in 1897 or whatever –” Aziraphale can't keep his voice from getting a little edge at the image of someone showering the demons with gifts meant to express interest, “– or perhaps it's honestly just the sunglasses. I don't know. But we should find out.”

Crowley grimaces. “It won't help us solving your little problem.”

Aziraphale squints his eyes at the absolute certainty in the demon's voice. “How do you know?” he asks. “Why are you so sure about that?”

Crowley flinches at that and looks for a moment like he deeply regrets ever opening his mouth.

“Uuuummm …”

_And_ he goes back to squirming uncomfortably.

“You know the reason, don't you?” Aziraphale realises, the expression on the demon's face like an open book all of a sudden. “You know _exactly_ why you're immune, right?”

For a moment he honestly has no idea what to say. He simply stares at his friend getting more awkward by the second and feels a lot of things he has no idea how to process.

Is he supposed to be angry now? Or sad that Crowley didn't trust him enough to say something from the start? Or should he feel betrayed even?

“Crowley …” he whispers.

The demon groans at that. “Oh, for fuck's sake, don't look like a kicked puppy. _Stop it_.”

Aziraphale's features harden. “I'm just – you lied to me –”

“I never lied,” Crowley is quick to clarify. “I just … uh, never really told you the truth.”

“Which counts as lying.”

Crowley snorts. “You never outright asked me why I don't seem affected by the spell. So why should I answer a question I've never even gotten in the first place?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, ready to protest wholeheartedly, but just as he takes a deep breath to prepare himself accordingly he gives Crowley's words a chance to get through his brain. And, after a fast evaluation, he suddenly realises that the demon is perfectly right.

Aziraphale remembers being puzzled and at the same time delighted by Crowley's unchanged behaviour. And he recalls rambling a lot, not even giving his friend the opportunity to voice any kind of confession to begin with. But, thinking about it now, Aziraphale is pretty certain he never actually outright asked Crowley if he knows why he seems to be immune. At least not in a way that would have forced an answer from the demon.

“Okay, fine, you might have a point,” Aziraphale concedes. “But here we are now. And I'm _asking_.” He leans closer to Crowley and ignores the slight flutter in his stomach caused by their proximity. “Why are you not affected by the spell?”

Crowley makes a tiny noise.

And stays quiet.

Aziraphale feels somewhat inclined to slap him over the head. “So I guess it's not the sunglasses?”

Crowley glances at Adam and both demon and Antichrist exchange a look that seems to communicate a lot of things without verbalising a single word. Aziraphale has no idea how to interpret their silent conversation, but he surely doesn't appreciate feeling left out like that.

“Crowley!” he urges. “Just answer the damned question!”

Crowley recoils at his harsh tone.

His shoulders sag.

And he looks _gutted_.

Like he'd rather face the apocalypse again than having to deal with this.

“Angel, _please_ …” he breathes eventually. “Don't ask me that.”

His voice appears close to breaking.

Tiny. Weak. Unsteady.

All the confusing emotions that attacked Aziraphale so ferociously before instantly step aside and make room for concern. Like a switch had been flipped.

Because Aziraphale is fairly certain he's never heard his friend speak like that before.

“Crowley, what is it?” He steps even closer now, their breaths intermingling, not leaving much space for anything else. “Is it something bad? Do I – do I need to punch someone?”

Despite his tension this gets a low chuckle out of Crowley. “No, angel,” he says. “You really don't have to resort to any sort of violence …”

“Then what it is?” He feels a powerful urge to raise his hand and slide it over Crowley's cheek in a soothing manner. The very same hand he just wanted to use ten seconds ago to slap the demon. 

Aziraphale's almost getting whiplash from that roller coaster of emotions, but Crowley's crestfallen features are more than enough to bring even the strongest being to its knees.

“Please talk to me, dear …”

Crowley grits his teeth, obviously reluctant to do so, but also not eager to leave Aziraphale hanging like that.

“It's just …” He lowers his gaze. “It's nothing bad, I swear. Nobody is in danger or even dying –”

“Well, that's good to know.”

“It's just …” Crowley glances at Imael, at Hastur and Narek, even at Adam who stepped back a moment ago to grant them some privacy. “I don't wanna talk about it …”

“My dear –”

“It's embarrassing, okay?” Crowley clarifies, his entire body strained as he leans nearer to Aziraphale to make sure nobody is able to overhear his words. “It's really … I don't …”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale offers him a small, reassuring smile. “You don't have to be ashamed of anything. Not with me. You know that, don't you?”

Crowley pulls a face. “This is different.”

Aziraphale pats his wrist soothingly. “I'm not sure I can believe that,” he says. “I mean, I once caught you right in the middle of shedding your snake skin on my couch. You were wiggling all over the place and it actually looked kind of obscene, in a weird way …” Crowley yelps at the reminder, his cheeks tingeing pink, and Aziraphale hurries to adds, “I'm just saying that I don't think there is anything you need to be embarrassed about in front of me.”

Crowley grumbles.

And then he takes a step back.

“It's different this time,” he insists.

Aziraphale inhales deeply. “You can trust me.”

“I know,” Crowley says, sounding absolutely genuine about it. “So I need you to trust me to know what I'm doing.”

Aziraphale doesn't even hesitate to answer, “Of course, always –”

“I promise you it's nothing bad,” Crowley states and even lifts his hand as though he's swearing an oath. “The reason the spell … well … me, uh, still feeling the same around you won't help erasing your problem. It's not a cause or a solution but just an effect, like with anybody else.”

Aziraphale looks at him intently. “Because of something embarrassing.”

“Yes,” Crowley presses through his teeth.

“Even more embarrassing than skinning yourself on my couch while making pornographic noises.”

Crowley's jaw goes slack at that. “I was _not_ making any –”

“It was clearly _something_ ,” Aziraphale cuts him off. “And I'm just saying I've seen a lot of things over the last few millennia and there is nothing you have to be ashamed about. But if you really don't want to talk about it, I respect that.”

Crowley's shoulder unclench in relief. “Thank you.”

“Although you could have told me sooner that it's not a general _demon_ but a _you_ issue,” Aziraphale points out.

“I would have, if it would've become important at one point,” Crowley says with emphasis. “And I _will_ say something if it might turn out to be vital. Which I highly doubt.”

Aziraphale guesses that's all he gets for now. Crowley seems both very determined and quite desperate to not have the angel know his secret, so shooting him some puppy eyes and whispering _“oh pretty please”_ with an exaggerated pout will probably not do the trick.

(Not this time.)

(Thankfully it's still fairly effective in most other situations.)

For now Aziraphale has to accept Crowley's wishes.

Even if he's quite certain he will drive himself crazy imagining what the hell it might be that has Crowley so worked up.

Because something embarrassing? For a demon that might mean something completely different than for anybody else. Perhaps he saved a litter of kittens once on a rainy day and the Almighty granted him with eternal immunity against any love enchantments as a reward. At this point an entirely possible scenario and clearly something Crowley would _never_ want to talk about.

“How about we just get back on track?” Crowley proposes, most likely very keen to change the subject right away. “After all, we have two demons to deal with now. On top of everything else.”

The corners of Aziraphale's mouth droop at the reminder and he throws a tentative glance at the beings in questions.

At Narek who apparently has been leering at Aziraphale the entire time, his eyes more than ready to devour him in one piece and leave nothing behind but a fleeting memory of the former angel.

And at Hastur who started to pluck at his clothes and Aziraphale _really_ hopes he's just adjusting his shirt and not thinking about getting rid off all his garments to seduce the angel with any form of nakedness.

Aziraphale _seriously_ doesn't want to know what's underneath there.

_No way_.

“What are we going to do with them?” Crowley asks, his face a grimace as he studies his former Hell co-workers with all the disgust his body is able to muster.

Aziraphale sighs. “I don't know. This is an utter mess.”

It surely is. 

If Hell would discover the condition those two are currently in, it might very well be the end of their peaceful after-apocalypse life.

And Aziraphale would do _anything_ to stop that from happening.

But at the same time he feels his mind automatically drifting back to their previous issue and he just _knows_ this will keep him occupied for a long while, no matter what. Even flirting demons won't change that.

He looks at Crowley who still seems highly uncomfortable. At Adam repeatedly shooting the demon some meaningful glances that are an absolute mystery to Aziraphale.

And he doesn't like it.

He knows there is something more going on. Something sitting on the tip of his tongue, prodding him, teasing him. Like the answer is sitting right in front of him and he's just too blind to see it.

Is it …?

Might it _actually_ be possible …?

No.

NO.

_NO WAY_.

It's probably really that litter of kittens.

Aziraphale can't afford to believe anything else. 

For the sake of his own sanity.


	19. Closer Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my friends!
> 
> I hope you guys are well and safe and had a great Easter if that's the kind of thing you celebrate or simply generally just a good time :D
> 
> And once again I have to say thank you to you all, your amazing supoort is seriously blowing me away 💗 This story is so much fun to write and it's even more fun to share it with you all :))
> 
> And, without further ado, I hope you're gonna enjoy the new chapter!
> 
> -

Crowley tries to concentrate on the situation at hand.

The two demons currently sitting in their chalk trap and seemingly perfectly fine with it as long as they're allowed to leer at Aziraphale like he's not only a tasty midnight snack but a whole delicious weekend buffet. 

The young angel, so smitten he'd probably wouldn't even notice being on fire at this point.

The Antichrist, entirely way too amused by everything going on around him. 

Crowley should seriously focus on them. Every single one of them is a loose cannon. A walking and talking unpredictability.

(Yes, even Adam.)

(He might start calling people 'dude' again.)

But instead Crowley's attention is gripped by Aziraphale alone. Who has been looking at him with various stages of doubt and suspicion glinting in his eyes. He doesn't even try to hide it in any way.

He's clearly desperate to learn why the spell apparently doesn't have an effect on Crowley.

And granted, he might have promised to respect Crowley's privacy in that matter, but the demon knows his friend long enough to realise that this won't just satisfy Aziraphale natural curiosity. On the contrary, this whole thing will continue to bug him. Relentlessly. Insistently.

And sooner or later he _will_ demand an answer and Crowley isn't sure if he'd be strong enough to withstand him then.

After all, he almost messed it up once. Adam had been kind enough to help him out of the situation while talking about Harry Potter and distracting Aziraphale efficiently and Crowley could have easily gone along with it. It wouldn't have been a hardship to blame the entire thing on his sunglasses and promise to keep them on for the rest of this ordeal.

He hadn't planned to take them off anytime soon anyway. His eyes might give away far too much about the feelings this blasted spell is dragging on the surface.

It would have been perfect. Simple. Effective.

And Aziraphale would have believed that explanation, sooner or later. It might have taken some persuasion, sure, but in the end it really could have worked.

And then Crowley's brain stopped functioning for a second there and now they're here.

With Aziraphale studying him with that intense look that makes the demon tingly all over the place. And Crowley just knows this is going to end bad. At one point he will crack, one way or another, and that moment of weakness will reveal things he buried so deep inside himself even he wasn't able to reach them for a very long time.

It might destroy just about everything Crowley grew to love over the centuries and millennia.

And granted, Rachel does have a point, Aziraphale won't just abandon their friendship and disappear from his life entirely, but it's gonna be awkward and uncomfortable and Aziraphale will continue to give him these _looks_ and Crowley will hate every second of it.

He can't let that happen.

“You want me to continue questioning the demons?” Imael suddenly jerks them all of their own thoughts, being so eager and excited like a little puppy ready for his first proper pee. “I already told the Serpent I've got my ways to bring them to talk. Just a little nudge –”

“Nudge?” Aziraphale asks, for the first time averting his gaze from Crowley to look at the other angel. “What do you mean?”

Imael smiles way too brightly. “Well, a little persuasion –”

“You're talking about torture, don't you?” Aziraphale's expression hardens, but he doesn't sound overly surprised. Considering he's very familiar with Heaven's ways that's not really astonishing, to be honest. However, he still manages to appear disappointed, as though, despite everything, he expected something more from Imael.

“We don't have to torture them,” Adam points out, scoffing at the idea. “I mean, that spell is clearly working on them as well. So I guess you can't put them off your list of suspects, don't you think?”

Imael blinks and stares at the Antichrist as if the boy just grew a second head.

And then he wonders, with the utmost bewilderment, “The demons are affected by the spell?”

He stares at the demons in question. At Narek, licking his lips and looking at Aziraphale like he can't wait to eat him whole and pick the rest of the angel's remains out of his teeth for days to come. At Hastur who already took his cloak off and obviously seriously considers losing more of his clothing to seduce Aziraphale with the paleness of his demonic skin.

Imael studies them, so utterly intently he seems to give himself a headache, and yet, according to the expression on his face, he can't see what's so very obvious. He most likely thinks that it's a given that everyone acts like a lovesick fool around Aziraphale and would never entertained the idea to consider it suspicious behaviour.

Though, to be fair, since Hell's concept of flirting is highly disturbing, it's understandable the young fella is getting confused here.

“Yes, it might not seem that way, but they're affected as well!” Crowley confirms. “So I don't think they have any valuable answers for us.”

Imael is clearly bummed by those news. “So I don't get to torture them?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Though, at the same time he kind of gets it. He'd probably be down too if he'd believed he would have the opportunity to make those two demon idiots suffer and in the end had the entire thing cancelled.

It's not a very enjoyable image.

“ _Nobody_ gets tortured!” Aziraphale decides, the finality in his tone leaving no room for objections. “Dear Lord, we're not barbarians.”

Crowley actually doubts that applies to every single being in this room, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Besides, why don't we ask those, um, gentlemen nicely?” Aziraphale proposes. “There is no harm in that, don't you think?”

Well, normally that wouldn't have much of an impact, Crowley has to admit. Getting polite around demons and expecting any kind of curtsey is mainly just a waste of time. Which also ends up fatal more often than not.

But both Narek and Hastur are bewitched right now and hopefully keen to do anything for Aziraphale at this point.

The angel, at least, steps closer to the demons and tries to ignore their creepily eager expressions as he closes the distance between them.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he greets them and under any other circumstances this whole thing would've been be quite ridiculous. But it's Aziraphale and if anyone might be able to pull this off, it is him. “It's very … well, lovely to meet you.”

The demons stare at him as though they're not sure whether that's a threat or not.

And it's yet another example why Heaven and Hell have so much trouble to communicate. Sometimes it feels like they're all speaking different languages.

“I'm afraid I have to inform you you're currently under the influence of a rather powerful enchantment,” Aziraphale continues, all polite and proper. “As is the angel who kidnapped you in the first place, the curse affecting his choices and not allowing him to think straight. I apologise for any inconvenience.”

Both demons keep on staring for a moment.

And then it's Narek who asks, “Is it that love spell those clowns have been talking about?” before gesturing at Crowley and Imael.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. And quite belatedly adds, “They're not clowns, though.”

Narek, however, looks like he strongly disagrees on that and probably only the spell's powers keep him from contradicting Aziraphale in that matter.

“I already thought that an enchantment might be involved,” he says instead, sounding absolutely casual despite the fact the curse is turning his brain into mush this very second. “At least normally I don't really feel the urge to lick an angel from top to bottom.”

Aziraphale flinches at that and instantly takes a small step back.

“Uh …”

“He's right,” Hastur jumps in. “I mean, I never really paid you any attention before and suddenly I wanna suck on your foot? That can't be a coincidence.”

While Aziraphale's eyes widen at that Narek appears intrigued and leans closer to Hastur. “His foot?”

“The entire thing,” Hastur confirms. “I wanna suck all the skin off it until there is nothing but bones.”

“Fascinating.” Narek cocks his head and assesses Aziraphale like a predator. “You mind if I'd took the other foot?”

“Oh no, of course not, he's got two of them after all,” Hastur allows generously. “The more the merrier.”

“And afterwards we could rip his arms off, break all the bones inside to make it more flexible and wear it as a belt,” Narek proposes. “We could carry him around with us for centuries to come. Not to mention the smell of his rotting flesh as an extra bonus.”

Hastur smiles heinously. “Sounds delightful.”

“Oh dear Lord,” Aziraphale mutters, looking all kinds of scandalised as he takes another step back, more than keen to have more distance between them and get his limbs to safety. “How about we stop talking about dismembering me, yes? That would be magnificent.”

Hastur and Narek gape at him as if they have no idea why the angel isn't enjoying every single second of it.

“We should just …” Aziraphale takes a deep breath, clearly unsettled by their intense gazes. “I mean, you're obviously realising the spell is messing with your brain, right? So it should be in your interest to try to suppress those urges, don't you think?”

Hastur looks like this is already too much for his tiny brain.

Narek merely blinks.

“If that's what you wish.”

Aziraphale sighs. “It should be what _you_ wish.”

“But I enjoy imagining plucking your eyes out and wearing them as a bracelet,” Narek points out like that's the most romantic thing to dream about. “That's what I'm wishing for right now. Even though I'm quite aware that the spell is making me have those thoughts.”

Crowley arches a brow. “So you're okay with that?”

Narek shrugs. “He's a very pretty angel.”

Like that's all the explanation necessary.

And okay, fine, he does have a point here, Crowley has to admit.

But it's still not nice to consider that they both don't even see the need to fight against the spell although they're, contrary to Imael, for instance, actually aware it's changing their entire being right now.

Crowley wonders if he'll end up as this point sooner or later as well if this whole thing would go on for longer. Right now he's conscious enough to make a stand against its influence, at least as good as he's able to, but perhaps at some point its power over Crowley might even grow. And then what? Will Crowley also start talking about wearing Aziraphale's limbs as a fashion accessory? Knowing fully well the curse is controlling his actions but not only being unable to stop it but also not giving a damn anymore?

Yeah, Crowley _seriously_ doesn't want to think about that. It's too horrible to imagine.

“All right, if you insist on being … rather graphic with your flirtations or whatever _this_ is supposed to be,” Aziraphale grimaces so hard at the demons it's probably visible from outer space, “then so be it. It's not like I'm able to stop Imael from waxing poetics either.”

Imael perks up and beams like the sun itself at the mention of his name. Aziraphale, on the other hand, looks like he's honestly considering smashing his head against a massive brick wall.

“But I assume you have no intention of lying to me, am I right?” he asks the demons while he straightens his back, obviously determined for some posture.

“Well, I love to lie,” Hastur points out.

“Because we're demons and that is what we do,” Narek adds.

“But of course we won't lie to you.”

“Because you're so pretty.”

“So very pretty.”

“And we want to take you back with us to Hell and declare you king because that's the least you deserve.”

“The most beautiful king of them all.”

“So pretty.”

“So _very_ pretty.”

Aziraphale sighs and gapes at the demons for a moment quite helplessly before he eventually turns toward Crowley and whines, “This is a nightmare.”

“Oh, I don't know, angel,” Crowley answers, a little smile flickering over his features. “Right now I'm rather fascinated by the fact that those two are perfectly happy to have a polyamorous love affair with you. I thought they would have already ripped each other apart, fuelled by jealousy and whatnot.”

Aziraphale suddenly looks like on the verge of crying.

“Poly–?”

“It means they both want you as your pet and share your limbs equally,” Crowley explains helpfully. “Lots of fun for everyone involved –”

“Oh, I _know_ what it means,” Aziraphale cuts him off harshly. “I just … I don't …”

“You don't want to picture it in your mind?” Crowley finishes the sentence. “Fine, I get that. It's not a nice thought, is it?”

Aziraphale actually honest-to-God pouts and shakes his head miserably.

“But it's also somewhat lovely, if you think about it,” Crowley adds while petting the angel's shoulder in a hopefully reassuring manner. “I mean, demons getting along like that, only because of you. You're bringing people together, my friend.”

“The spell is bringing them together in their obsession!” Aziraphale clarifies, clearly not happy about Crowley's words. “And that's not something to be thrilled about.”

“Oh trust my, angel, I'm _far_ from thrilled about this –”

“Not to mention that it might very well turn into something ugly soon,” Aziraphale interjects. “Powerful love spells like mine have usually a tendency to get stronger and worse over time. Jealousy, envy, rage – it might end up clouding their minds.”

Fair enough.

That doesn't sound pleasant at all.

“And can you imagine some angels and demons thrown into that mix? Or Rachel's magical witch parents?” Aziraphale runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up rather spectacularly. “This might even turn into a worse nightmare than it already is.”

Crowley hates to say it, but Aziraphale might actually be right. Granted, he's not an expert on love enchantments of any kind, but he heard some terrible stories over the millennia and he's actually not keen to witness something like that in live action.

“I'm not sure I will be able to deal with that –”

Aziraphale looks so defeated Crowley just wants to pull him in his arms and never let go. Only the fact that they're the opposite of alone right now keeps him glued to the spot, even though it kills him a little bit inside.

Meanwhile, the angel continues to sigh. “We're not any closer to finding even the hint of an answer and …”

On autopilot Crowley wants to nod in agreement with that, because after all, they _are_ really screwed as the situation currently suggests. But then he finds himself arching his brows, a foggy memory trying to grab his attention again.

An argument.

Right before Aziraphale showed up and Hell broke loose as the demons fell in love with him. As the angel realised Crowley is the only one unaffected.

An argument about …

“ _Why would I tell_ you _of all people?”_

Narek …

Narek!

“ _Narek_!” he suddenly exclaims as his memory kicks back in.

Everyone in the room flinches at his sudden outburst, but Crowley only gestures wildly at the demon in question, suddenly feeling something like hope bubbling up inside of him.

“Narek,” he repeats, this time his voice a little more level as he turns towards Aziraphale, “before you showed up here he announced he might have a clue who is behind all this.”

Aziraphale listens up curiously at that. “Really?”

“No idea how valid it is, but he seemed pretty confident,” Crowley relays. “And maybe he was exaggerating, like lots of demons do, but he's a pretty smart guy, too, no matter how much it hurts to admit that. He _seriously_ might have a useful clue.”

Hope nowadays might burn you quite terribly, but it's better than doing nothing.

“The Serpent is right, my love,” Imael pipes in, more than happy to have an excuse to lean closer toward Aziraphale. “That nasty creature claimed to know the answer, but he wouldn't tell us anything.”

“But with you in the picture now,” Crowley goes on, “and Narek's newfound love for you, including severed arms and dreams about a threesome on Hell's throne –”

“ _Oh dear Lord_!” Aziraphale cuts in with a grimace.

“I'm just saying he'll tell you anything now,” Crowley concludes with a shrug. “Perhaps we will solve this whole issue before supper.”

Aziraphale looks rather sceptical.

“How should he know who's behind all this?” he asks. “He's been here for, what, twenty minutes?”

“It can't hurt to hear him out.”

Aziraphale pulls a face. He would obviously rather do anything else than talk with the demons again and Crowley surely can't blame him for that. A very strong and protective part of himself just wants to grab the angel and take him far away from here, far away from _everything_ , and Crowley is pretty sure that's not the love spell speaking for him.

But this actually might be a good lead. Granted, Crowley hates to say or even think about and if this would be only about him he'd just walk away and rather risk lifelong misery than admit he needs Narek's help, but this is for Aziraphale and he'd do anything for his angel. It's always been this way and he has no intention to change that anytime soon.

“Okay, fine.” Aziraphale straightens his waistcoat as he puts a somewhat determined expression on his face. “If you think this might be valuable …”

He turns back to the demons who still kept looking at him as though they can't wait to drag him with them to Hell and do unspeakable things to him there.

“Gentlemen, I can assume you're not responsible for this love spell and neither is Hell, at least to your knowledge, is that correct?” Aziraphale assesses the two beings intently, apparently keen not to miss even the tiniest twitch on their features.

“Yes, we promise,” Hastur agrees easily. “Before that heinous angel kidnapped us and trapped us in this cage we never even heard of it before.”

“Though we have to confess it's a nice idea to punish little angels like that,” Narek adds with a dreamy smile on his face. “Quite classy.”

“Not you, though, pretty angel,” Hastur says hastily. “We're really … uh, sorry? Is that the right word?” He looks so utterly confused it's almost hilarious. “Well, you can count on us to rip the responsible party apart. And not in the fun way.”

Narek nods along. “We're gonna avenge you, pretty angel,” he promises. “And then we can all live happily in Hell.”

Aziraphale apparently decided at some point to only listen to the parts he actually wants to hear and ignore the entire rest. At least he doesn't even wince at the image of their polyamorous adventures anymore.

“Do you know who is responsible for the spell?” he asks instead, his focus sharp. “Crowley said you had a suspicion.”

“Not a suspicion. Fact.” Narek merely shrugs. “I just wanted to see the Serpent twitch.”

Crowley sends him a death glare in response, but Narek is way too busy gazing at Aziraphale to appreciate it properly.

“So you _do_ know who's behind this?” the angel asks incredulously.

Hastur grins. “We know.”

Aziraphale blinks. “But _how_?”

“We can smell it,” Narek answers.

“Smell it?”

“Yes indeed.”

Aziraphale keeps on gaping at them in absolute disbelief before exchanging a quick glance with Crowley, probably wondering if the demon might potentially confirm if anything of this actually might be true or if it's just a big joke.

“You smell like it, pretty angel,” Narek says, leaning as close towards Aziraphale's direction as his chalk prison allows. “That heinous angel smells like it,” he gestures at Imael. “And even Crowley smells like he has drowned in it.”

Crowley feels his stomach plummet and takes a step back out of pure instinct.

“It's all over you,” Hastur hisses. “Everyone who has been in contact with it. Even the Antichrist.”

Adam immediately starts to sniff on his armpits as though he might be able to identify whatever the demons are talking about.

“But …” Aziraphale seems seriously overwhelmed by this information. “How are you able to detect a scent no other is able to notice?”

Narek tilts his head. “Because we're demons, pretty angel. We can recognise that smell everywhere.”

“But Crowley –”

“Crowley has been living among the humans for way too long,” Hastur cuts in, now clear hostility in his tone as he glares at Crowley. “He forgot what it smells like. For him it's just an unremarkable scent muddled underneath all the others until the point where he's incapable of picking it out anymore.”

Crowley stares at him. He wants to protest and defend himself, but the truth is, it actually might be right. He's been absent from Hell for so very long (a few quick trips here and there not making much of a difference) he forgot a lot of things in the process. Distinctive smells, for one, it seems.

“Well, wonderful.” Aziraphale smiles widely as those news. “Then please tell me with who or what we're dealing with –”

“No!” Hastur and Narek both say in unison.

Aziraphale blinks. “No?”

“It's too dangerous,” Hastur explains. “We won't jeopardize your life.”

Crowley grinds his teeth. Just like with Imael when he thought going on solo missions and being an reckless idiot would improve Aziraphale's chances to end his suffering. That spell is clearly doing everything to make its victims not only devoted slaves buts also protectors at all costs.

Quite fascinating.

And Aziraphale is right, it might result into something absolutely horrible if the enchantment's power were to grow sooner or later.

“Far too dangerous,” Narek agrees. “The magic, it's old and powerful. Even demons keep away from it usually.”

“But we are more than willing to solve this issue for you, pretty Aziraphale,” Hastur purrs. “We're not afraid to face this. And we are going to be victorious, you can count on that. Just let us out of here and we'll find the culprit and rip them apart.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line and shuffles closer to Crowley. For a second it even seems as though he's about to reach out and grip the demon's hand, but in the end he keeps everything to himself and Crowley is only left wondering whether he imagined that or not.

“We are your only chance, pretty,” Narek whispers after a moment of tense silence. “Let us free. We'll do the rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm ...
> 
> You think it might be a good idea to let the demons roam free???


	20. Bad Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends :)
> 
> I hope you are well and safe, wherever you are!
> 
> I'm bringing along a new chapter full of lovesick angels and demons and sassy Antichrists and our two favourite dumbasses slowly losing their minds >.<
> 
> Have fun :D
> 
> -

“Let us free. We'll do the rest.”

Wow.

If Crowley _ever_ heard a bad idea, this is it.

Not even the time he let himself get convinced to wear mint green shorts to red cowboy boots had been nearly as bad as this. And that outfit had been _atrocious_.

Horrific.

Eye melting.

And yet Crowley would rather wear that combo for the rest of his days than ever _consider_ letting those two morons out of their cage to roam free.

Apart from the fact that they're demons and they love to destruct out of principle alone, they're highly infatuated with Aziraphale and Crowley hates to know their sole attention on _his_ angel.

Admittedly, they might actually stay true to their words and catch the culprit, but the chances of them straying off their mission and kidnapping Aziraphale back to Hell to live their perfect fiery fairytale life down there is at least just as high. Probably even higher. Or they might just go to suck on Aziraphale's limbs and wear his skin as clothes because apparently this is something a proper demon fantasises about.

There are _so many_ ways this could go horribly wrong.

The possibility of this turning out right by any chance seriously isn't worth it.

Thankfully Aziraphale seems to agree. “Are you out of your minds?” He scoffs at both demons and shakes his head in utter disbelief. “You're _demons_. I can't have you wandering around with you not thinking straight.”

Well, in Crowley's opinion you can't let them walk around _period_ , no matter their state of minds, but he keeps that thought to himself for now. There are not beings around lucid enough to appreciate his words anyway.

“We won't disappoint you, pretty,” Narek promises, his smile going wide it's slipping into uncomfortable predator territory. “We'll find the one responsible and we're gonna kill them –”

“And killing them will reverse the spell?” Aziraphale asks as he fold his arms across his chest and assesses the demons with pointedly raised eyebrows. “Everything will return to normal?”

Narek blinks and exchanges a quick glance with Hastur.

“Will killing them reverse the spell?” he wonders.

Hastur cocks his head in thought. “I'm not sure. Their kind is hard to kill. I haven't heard much about what happens when they die.”

“So it _could_ reverse the spell?”

“Maybe,” Hastur agrees. “But their magic is so powerful I wouldn't be surprised if it would stay strong even after their death.”

“Fair point.”

Crowley watches their back and forth intently and just _hates_ the fact he has no idea what they're even talking about. It must be some creature either living in Hell or having close ties to it at least considering it took those two knuckleheads basically no time at all to figure this out. It's most likely something or someone glaringly obvious and it drives Crowley absolutely crazy that he feels so clueless.

He tries to sniff the air as discreetly as possible, but there is so much going on he can't pinpoint anything. And sure, he noticed Aziraphale's scent being a little different since everything happened, but he blamed that (quite rightfully) on the spell and didn't even question it. He never even considered the possibility that this slight change in the angel's smell might actually be the answer to their very problem.

And yes, there is something familiar about it. But all magic more or less has the same source at the end of the day, so he didn't let that bother him.

Crowley sighs. This is extraordinarily frustrating.

Even more so than the time he had to entertain an entire room of tax accountants. After that dreadfully long night Crowley was more than ready to drown himself.

And he fears this time it won't be all that much different.

Great.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale stares at both demons with the hardest glare his glowing angel face can muster before grabbing Crowley at the shoulders and nudging him to the south corner of the room to have something resembling to privacy for a short moment.

“So what do we do now?” Aziraphale whispers as he leans closer to Crowley, their proximity once again making the demon way dizzier than he is proud of. “We can't let them free, right?”

Despite his conviction earlier he seems rather uncertain now again. As though he feels the concept of control slipping through his fingers and is completely helpless to do anything about it.

“Yeah, letting them out would be the _mother_ of bad ideas,” Crowley says, nodding extra fiercely to make the angel feel better about himself. “Granted, they might actually catch the culprit and everything, but they certainly would destroy a bunch of stuff along the way. Like human lives and whatever.”

Aziraphale pulls a face at that. “That would be rather unfortunate.”

“It surely doesn't sound like a lot of fun, yes.”

Aziraphale stays silent for a moment and casts another glance at the demons' direction. Several emotions are running over his features, way too quickly and way too complex for Crowley to distinguish any of them.

“Do you think they're even telling the truth?” Aziraphale wonders after a while. “Or that this might just be a ruse to get out of their prison?”

Crowley takes a deep breath. “Of course with demons you can never be sure,” he admits, not really certain whether he's including himself in that or not. “Though at the same time I don't even know if their brains are working properly enough to come up with something like a ruse to begin with. That enchantment seems to make everyone very narrow-minded on you specifically. No idea if they even possess the capacity right now to form any kind of plan. Or lies.”

At least looking at Hastur attempting to actually bat his eyelashes at Aziraphale and Narek studying intently the angel's bow tie as though he's imagining doing unspeakable things with it seriously makes Crowley question their general brain functions. Coming up with such a lie might actually already be way too much for them at the moment.

“You might be right,” Aziraphale mumbles.

“Besides, your smell really did change with that spell,” Crowley adds. “And it's glued to everyone who has been in your vicinity. Even Adam.”

Aziraphale's jaw goes a bit slack at that. “ _What_?” he exclaims. “Why didn't you say anything?”

Crowley takes a step back because it looks like the angel is honestly contemplating smacking him over the head or something. “It's not _that_ distinctive,” he defends himself. “And I just thought it's the magic itself. Not the culprit's actual fingerprint.”

For a second or two Aziraphale keeps on glaring, but eventually his shoulders sag and he sighs rather heavily. “You're right. How should you have known that?”

Crowley still feels quite bad, though. He might have the solution right here, right in front of him, directly under his nose, and yet it still seems utterly far away. He never regretted putting more and more distance between himself and Hell over the last few millennia, but right now he seriously starts to doubt if it was such a good idea.

“And there is nothing familiar about it?” Aziraphale asks, hope wavering in his tone. “I mean, about the way I smell?”

His cheeks begin to tinge a little rosy at that question and it's almost so distracting Crowley entirely forgets to answer.

Thankfully he's got a bit more brain activity left than Hastur and Narek. “Um,” he responds, as graceful and eloquent as ever. “Uuuhhh …”

“So nothing?” Aziraphale tries to translate his incoherent sounds.

“Well, there is _something_ ,” Crowley confesses. “I can't really say what it is, though. I know I smelled it before, at some point in my life. Probably _way_ back when I used to hang out in Hell more often.” He sighs. “I'm sorry, angel. I didn't give it much thought before and now that I know it's there and I can't do anything about it anyway – _UGH_.”

His throat closes up at the idea of disappointing his friend like this.

However, Aziraphale's expression immediately softens as he reaches out to squeeze Crowley's wrist gently in a soothing manner. “There is _nothing_ you have to apologise for, my dear. This is not in any way your fault.”

Crowley feels the urge to protest, but when Aziraphale's thumb brushes over his pulse point he loses the ability to speak.

“I know this might be quite frustrating for you,” the angel continues. “But I'm actually glad to hear you have distanced yourself from Hell in such a grave way. It might not always be obvious because at the end of the day we're still an angel and a demon, so I actually tend to forget it from time to time, but situations like these remind me how different we both became. Even way before that unpretty business with the apocalypse. And that's a good thing.”

“The best,” Crowley corrects, his chest getting a bit tight under Aziraphale's soft gaze.

“It is,” the angel agrees. “And I'm quite sure there is a lot of Heaven I forgot myself. I might even get lost up there if I would ever return.”

Crowley can't help a chuckle at that image.

“I'm just saying, we will figure it out eventually.” Aziraphale sounds so bloody confident you're unable to not agree with him. “At least we have a new clue. Something or someone so close interwoven with Hell demons can recognise their smell alone in no time at all.”

Crowley pulls a face. “I'm afraid that won't narrow it down all that much,” he points out. “There are still a lot of possibilities left. Warlocks, voodoo priests, dark witches, Satanists, dragons, trolls, hell hounds, hell cats …”

“There are hell cats?” Aziraphale wonders.

Crowley smirks. “You can't really be surprised by that. After all, in every single cat there is a little demon, right?”

Aziraphale cocks his head and mulls this over, far more intently, it seems, than it's actually necessary right now.

“There is still a large pool we have to fish in,” Crowley says. “This new information won't make it all that easier.”

“But it still rules out a lot of things we took into account before,” Aziraphale states. “It's not that much, yes, but it's more progress than we had in the last few hours, so I will call that a success.”

Crowley isn't so sure this is something to be happy about, but he surely won't rain on Aziraphale's parade.

“First things first though,” Aziraphale says while plucking on his sleeve as though he can't stand looking anything other than impeccable right now. “What are we going to do about the demons?”

Crowley merely shrugs. “Easy. We leave them here. Just as they are.”

They're surely locked in their little circle and don't show any indication to have the slightest idea how to get out of there. Probably the entire mansion could collapse around them and they still would be frozen on the spot.

Aziraphale, however, doesn't appreciate Crowley's suggestion. “Oh no, we can't do that,” he objects rather vehemently. “That would be terribly rude.”

“They're demons,” Crowley points out. “You being rude to them will most likely be interpreted as a love declaration.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “I won't leave them trapped in that little circle for God knows how long.”

Crowley sighs. Such annoying things as moral are definitely inconvenient sometimes.

“They we could let them walk around the house?” he proposes. “I mean, the entire thing is a massive demon trap. They wouldn't get out anyway.”

And Crowley doesn't even want to think about the fact that he himself is currently locked in here as well, absolutely incapable of fleeing the premises on his own.

“But we can't just let them roam around the house,” Aziraphale protests yet again. “This is Rachel's home after all. Having demons sneaking in the hallways and going through her underwear drawer is possibly something she won't approve of.”

Fair enough.

Crowley has to admit it might indeed not be the nicest image in the world.

“Then how we expend the small cage they're just sitting in,” Crowley compromises in the end. “I'm sure Imael will be able to increase its size so it would at least take up the whole room. Would that be enough for your delicate sensibilities?”

Aziraphale glances around the room. It's a simple salon, probably a room meant for entertaining high-end guests in, and there seems nothing of personal values lying around. Just pompous furniture and way too overpriced paintings on the wall.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees tentatively, obviously taking his time to mull this over in his head. “Yes, that might work. For the time being.”

It's not like they're actually planning to uphold this mess for a long time anyway. Perhaps even by this time tomorrow everything might be back to normal, with angels in Heaven and demons in Hell and Antichrists with their meatloafs, and Crowley and Aziraphale could just continue their uneventful life in peace.

“Yes, that seems manageable,” Aziraphale mumbles, assessing the current situation with great focus. “I sent Rachel, her parents and Clifford to the bookshop when I realised demons might have invaded the house. I'm sure they're already arrived. I will tell them to stay put there until further notice.”

There is a flicker of guilt showing up on his features, probably put there by the fact that he chased those people out of their home. Especially Rachel who has been bending backwards to help him out of his misery.

“And we,” Aziraphale continues, his eyes setting on Crowley, “we should get out of here, too. I know this place is making you very uncomfortable.”

The understatement of the century.

“I can't say it's gonna turn into one of my favourite spots in town, yes,” Crowley confesses.

“I have no idea if the demon-repelling spell outside is the only thing we have to worry about,” Aziraphale says with a grimace. “I mean, there could be traps around here everywhere. For all we know they perhaps put even Holy Water in their water pipes.”

Crowley winces at the image and instinctively takes a step away from the wall behind him.

“We should just grab every book from the Salinger's library that might be useful and regroup somewhere else,” Aziraphale suggests.

“We could go to my place,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale pulls a face. “Are you sure?”

“You don't like my place?”

At that Aziraphale gets immediately flustered. “Oh no, I mean, it's fine, it's _lovely_ , actually, especially those wonderful plants and … and … uh, the statues …” He squirms awkwardly on the spot and it's most delightful to watch. “I'm just afraid we would have to take _him_ with us.”

He points at Imael who's currently listening to Adam explaining to him how a mobile phone works. The angel seems rather fascinated by that, particularly about the camera function, and Crowley already dreads Imael finding a new passion in shooting five million pictures of Aziraphale to pass the time.

“You were right, he _is_ a troublemaker,” Aziraphale admits. “I can't let him out of my sight again. Next time he might drag along something even more horrible than demons.”

Crowley certainly isn't very keen on seeing that day.

“You've got a point there,” he agrees.

“But I don't want just bring him to your flat,” Aziraphale says. “I'm sure you don't really appreciate having angels around there and Imael will know its location then –”

“Angel, hush,” Crowley cuts him off, chuckling lowly as he pats Aziraphale's wrist reassuringly. “It will be fine.”

“But –”

“This is not like your bookshop, angel,” Crowley clarifies. “My heart and soul don't belong to this place. Hell, most of the time I don't even like it.”

He always felt way more drawn to Aziraphale and his cluttered shop filled with warmth and the smell of cocoa. His own flat was just a means to an end, a necessity because he needed somewhere to stay.

“Imael can know its location, it's fine,” Crowley assures. “Hell knows about it too and I still haven't been bothered by them since the apocalypse-that-wasn't.”

Aziraphale hesitates. “Are you really sure about that?”

“I'm more put out by the fact that we have to bring Imael along in the first place,” Crowley points out. “Are you sure we can't just trap him in another room, just like Hastur and Narek?”

Aziraphale's expression hardens again. “Crowley –”

“Okay, fine.” Crowley sighs deeply. “It probably wouldn't be a good idea to leave them all alone in the same building anyway. They'd either find a way to rip each other's throats out somehow or the demons might even go so far to poison his mind and tempt him to do something bad. Right now Imael seems gullible enough for that.”

For a moment Aziraphale seems like he's about to protest and protect Imael's honour somehow, but eventually his shoulders sag as he realises that he's got no ammunition to argue with Crowley in that matter.

“I could keep an eye on Imael,” suddenly another voice next to them pipes up. Crowley shoots a glance to the side and looks straight into Adam's big eyes. The demon has no idea how the boy managed to approach them without either of them noticing, but he stopped questioning anything revolving the Antichrist and his abilities a long time ago.

Instead he raises his eyebrows in surprise. “ _You_ wanna babysit Imael?”

“Why not?” Adam shrugs as though this is a totally normal thing to suggest. “He could tell me lots of stories about Heaven. I still don't know all that much about it.”

Crowley only snorts. “You, young man, will go back home,” he orders. “Your parents probably already called the bloody military –”

“Oh no, they think I'm on a school trip,” Adam interrupts, a bright smile on his lips.

Crowley blinks in confusion. “What?”

“It's true,” Aziraphale chimes in, leaning in from the other side. “Adam called his parents on your phone earlier and apparently Imael changed their memories a little bit. They think Adam is on a school trip in Cardiff for the rest of the week.”

Crowley stares.

“A school trip? In _Cardiff_?”

Adam laughs. “Imael obviously used something he found in my dad's mind and came up with the story.”

Crowley blinks some more. “Why would he –?”

“Probably to appease me,” Aziraphale assumes. “I'm sure Imael thought rattling up innocent peoples' lives might not go well with me. Which, to be fair, he has been right about.”

Damn, this whole thing is getting weirder and weirder.

“Okay, whatever.” Crowley scoffs. “That doesn't mean we're keeping you with us, Antichrist –”

“Oh c'mon, you can't tell me you wanna deal with Imael,” Adam (rightfully) states. “Not to mention the fact that you're both absolutely useless in a crisis. And beyond.”

“ _Hey_!” Crowley and Aziraphale instantly complain in unison.

“You wanna deny facts?” the brat asks with a smirk. “You wanted to stop the apocalypse and in the end you would've failed _majorly_ if it hadn't been for me.”

Crowley purses his lips, but unfortunately he's got no counterarguments. During the whole apocalypse mess they proved themselves to be spectacularly incompetent on so many levels. And if Adam hadn't been inclined to actually let the world stay as it was everything would be a big puddle of bubbling goo now.

“I hate you,” Crowley can't help pointing out nonetheless.

Aziraphale jabs his side with his elbow and makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat while Adam's grin almost splits his face in half, “Whatever let's you sleep at night, demon.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and makes sure the boy knows that even despite the sunglasses covering it up. “You're way too sassy for your own good.”

“Just be careful,” Adam warns in amusement. “I could easily help Imael set up an _instagram_ account.”

Oh dear Almighty in Heaven.

It seems that this whole thing will end even worse than Crowley originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> And we're getting close to the good stuff again ;D At least next time we'll get some much needed Crowley-Aziraphale alone time again and there might be banter and wine and tipsy idiots and a lot of other things I'm totally looking forward to share with you all!
> 
> Until then, my friends!


End file.
